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(V 


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The  Historical  Romances 

of  Louisa  Miihlbach 

^  , ,  — 


Brandenburg  Edition 

Limited  to  One  Thousand  Sets 


and  her  Son 


D. 


/.  sdl  ni 


Marie  Antoinette  and  her  Children. 

From  a  painting  in  the  Museum  at  Versailles  by  Mme.  Lebrun. 


The  Historical  Romances  of 
Louisa  Muhlbach 


Marie  Antoinette 
and  her  Son 


Translated  from  the  German 
by  Rev.  W.  L.  Gage 


New  York  and  London 
D.  Appleton  and  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1867, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 
BY  D.   APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 


pr 
243? 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  marriage  of  Maria  Theresa's  fourth  daughter, 
Josephe  Jeanne  Marie  Antoinette,  to  the  Crown  Prince  of 
France,  on  May  16,  1770,  was  the  work  of  Prince  Kaunitz, 
and,  in  his  own  opinion,  one  of  the  triumphs  of  his  diplo- 
matic career.  The  Austrian  ruler  and  her  minister  regarded 
the  alliance  only  as  a  brilliant  move  on  the  chess  board  of 
international  politics,  and  the  young  princess  (she  was  only 
fifteen  years  old  at  the  time  of  her  marriage)  was  specially 
instructed  to  keep  her  mother  informed  regarding  the  pol- 
icies of  the  French  king  and  his  ministers.  Unhappily,  the 
part  she  thus  played  could  not  be  kept  secret ;  she  became 
unpopular  with  the  people,  notwithstanding  her  gracious- 
ness,  and  received  the  opprobrious  epithet  of  "  the  Aus- 
trian," or  even  "  the  Austrian  Spy."  Her  disregard  for  the 
strict  etiquette  of  the  French  court,  moreover,  made  ene- 
mies for  her  among  the  nobility,  and  the  members  of  the 
royal  house  regarded  her  with  disfavor.  She  succeeded  in 
making  her  influence  felt  especially  in  the  War  of  the  Ba- 
varian Succession,  but  generally  used  it  only  in  obtaining 
great  gifts  for  her  favorites,  whom  she  believed  to  be  her 
devoted  friends,  though  in  reality  they  only  served  their 
own  interests  with  shameless  rapacity. 

Frivolous,  extravagant,  fond  of  pleasure,  and  regardless 
of  appearances,  she  became  the  victim  of  many  vile  slan- 
ders, which  culminated  in  the  famous  necklace  episode.  It 
is  beyond  doubt,  however,  that  she  was  a  virtuous  woman, 
whose  only  sin  was  boundless  imprudence.  No  historical 
basis  exists  for  the  many  scandals  that  were  told  of  her  in 
all  the  capitals  of  Europe,  but  their  effect  at  the  time  was 
disastrous. 


2038920 


iv  MARIE  ANTOINETTE  AND  HER  SON. 

Louis  XVL,  who  succeeded  his  grandfather  in  1774, 
owed  his  fall  to  her  as  well  as  to  his  profligate  predecessor, 
and  to  the  disastrous  reign  of  the  Sun  King,  whose  funeral 
procession  was  pelted  with  mud  by  the  Paris  mob.  A  true 
daughter  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg,  Marie  Antoinette  had 
inherited  her  mother's  autocratic  tendencies,  but  not  her 
talents.  She  opposed  and  defeated  her  plodding,  well- 
meaning  husband's  attempts  at  reform  (whence  her  later 
nickname  of  "  Madame  Veto  "),  was  directly  responsible  for 
the  taking  of  the  Bastille,  and  mistrusted  the  few  friends 
who  still  remained  loyal  to  the  house  of  Bourbon.  Mira- 
beau's  plans  for  a  strong  constitutional  monarchy  she  frus- 
trated, and  on  the  latter's  death,  April  2,  1791,  persuaded 
the  king  to  take  the  very  step  against  which  the  count  had 
warned  her.  The  unsuccessful  flight  to  the  frontier  was 
stopped  at  Varennes  on  June  20,  1791,  and  after  that  the 
inexorable  course  of  events  could  no  longer  be  changed. 
The  armed  intervention  of  Austria  and  Prussia,  on  which 
she  built  all  her  hopes,  only  made  their  case  worse,  and 
Louis  XVI.  was  executed  on  January  21, 1793.  Marie  An- 
toinette followed  him  to  the  scaffold  on  October  16,  and  her 
son,  the  unhappy  dauphin,  was  handed  over  to  the  care  of 
the  cobbler  Simon. 

Notwithstanding  her  many  faults,  Marie  Antoinette 
well  deserves  the  tender  regard  in  which  her  memory  is 
held.  The  policy  of  her  house  imposed  upon  her  a  task 
that  was  beyond  her  strength  ;  a  mere  child  when  she  came 
to  France,  she  lacked  judicious  training  of  mind  and  char- 
acter, and  these  circumstances  combined  to  speed  her  to 
her  ruin.  But  her  noble  devotion  to  her  husband  and 
children  in  the  days  of  adversity,  and  her  undoubted  con- 
viction that  the  course  she  counselled  was  the  right  one, 
have  expiated  her  sins,  which  were  really  only  fatal  mis- 
takes, and  softened  the  judgment  of  history.  The  blackest 
feature  of  the  persecutions  to  which  she  was  exposed  is  the 
prominent  part  taken  therein  by  the  delectable  Duke  of 
Orleans  and  the  contemptible  Count  of  Provence,  who  in 
1814  became  Louis  XVIII. 

The  dauphin,  to  whom  history  has  assigned  the  title  of 
Louis  XVII.,  was  born  at  Versailles  on  March  27, 1785,  and 
was  the  third  child  and  second  son  of  the  royal  couple. 
His  ultimate  fate  was  long  one  of  the  puzzles  of  modern  his- 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

tory,  but  the  theory  that  he  really  died  in  the  Temple  on 
June  6,  1795,  is  now  accepted  as  the  correct  one.  The  au- 
thor's assumption,  however,  that  the  so-called  Duke  of  Nor- 
mandy was  in  reality  Louis  XVII. ,  was  for  a  long  time  held 
by  many  to  be  true. 

Many  impostors  arose,  of  course,  to  claim  the  dauphin's 
name  and  dignities,  the  best  known  of  them  all  being,  be- 
sides the  so-called  Duke  of  Normandy,  a  German,  Charles 
William  Naundorff,  whose  descendants,  now  living  in  the 
Netherlands,  still  cling  to  his  pretensions.  Jean  Marie 
Hervagault,  the  son  of  a  tailor  at  Saint- L6,  was  the  first  to 
make  the  claim  ;  he  died  in  1812  in  prison,  to  which  he 
had  been  condemned  for  vagrancy.  Another  impostor  of 
this  kind  was  Mathurin  Bruneau,  who  disappeared  utterly 
after  the  revolution  of  1848. 

The  author  has  told  us  in  this  volume,  not  the  story  of 
the  French  Revolution  and  its  leaders,  but  the  martyrdom 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  from  the  happy,  thoughtless  days  of 
Trianon  to  the  sublime  close  of  the  life  of  the  daughter  of 
the  Hapsburgs  who  scorned  to  be  afraid  of  death.  She  has 
interwoven  therewith  the  chronicle  of  Louis  XVI. 's  life,  and 
of  her  friends — Madame  de  Lamballe,  Madame  Elisabeth, 
Toulan,  and  a  few  others ;  and,  finally,  of  the  child  upon 
whom  fell  all  the  unspeakable  cruelty  of  the  infuriated 
mob,  incarnated  in  one  of  its  most  despicable  members,  the 
cobbler  Simon.  Then,  following  the  history  of  the  pre- 
tended Duke  of  Normandy,  she  sketches  the  period  of  re- 
action, of  reconstruction,  and  of  final  repression  by  the  hand 
of  Napoleon.  In  this  way  she  introduces  the  murder  of  the 
Duke  of  Enghien — an  echo  of  the  days  of  the  guillotine, 
wherein  the  First  Consul  took  the  place  of  the  mob,  not 
blinded  by  passion,  but  from  cool  and  heartless  calculation  ; 
and  finally  she  shows  us  Josephine,  to  whom  her  next  vol- 
ume is  devoted. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 


CHAPTER 
I. 

II. 
III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 


VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 


XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 


A  Happy  Queen,   . 

Madame  Adelaide,     . 

Trianon, 

The  Queen's  Necklace, 

Enemies  and  Friends, 

The  Trial.   . 


BOOK    II. 

The  Bad  Omen,     .... 
Before  the  Marriage, 
The  Opening  of  the  States-General, 
The  Inheritance  of  the  Dauphin, 
King  Louis  XVI.,        .,        . 
The  Fifth  of  October,  1789, 
The  Night  of  Horror,     .         .         . 


BOOK    III. 

To  Paris,    . 
Mamma  Queen, 
In  St.  Cloud,      . 
Mirabeau, 

Revolution  in  the  Theatre, 
vu 


PAGE 
1 

14 
30 
50 
62 

75 


114 
129 
142 
149 
159 
171 
193 


210 
218 
244 
255 
271 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XIX. 

June  20  and  August  10,  1792,    . 

296 

XX. 

To  the  21st  of  January, 

.    324 

XXI. 

Toulan,        .  ~  ~  .             ,-.,,-      -, 

346 

XXII. 

The  Plan  of  the  Escape, 

.         .         .         .360 

XXIII. 

The  Separation,           .         . 

378 

BOOK   V. 

XXIV. 

The  Death  of  the  Queen, 

...         .         .    393 

XXV. 

King  Louis  XVII.  ,     . 

400 

XXVI. 

The  Consultation,    . 

.    437 

XXVII. 

The  Hobby  -Horse, 

450 

XXVIII. 

Toulan  's  Death, 

.    478 

BOOK  VI. 

XXIX. 

Without  Name  and  Rank, 

486 

XXX. 

The  Baron  de  Richemont, 

.    500 

XXXI. 

Fouche,       ..... 

.         .         .         523 

XXXII. 

Josephine,        .... 

.543 

XXXIII. 

After  Long  Wanderings,    . 

557 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  AND  HER  SON. 


BOOK   I. 


CHAPTEE    I. 

A    HAPPY    QUEEN. 

IT  was  the  13th  of  August,  1785.  The  queen,  Marie 
Antoinette,  had  at  last  yielded  to  the  requests  and  protes- 
tations of  her  dear  subjects.  She  had  left  her  fair  Ver- 
sailles and  loved  Trianon  for  one  day,  and  had  gone  to 
Paris,  in  order  to  exhibit  herself  and  the  young  prince 
whom  she  had  borne  to  the  king  and  the  country  on  the 
25th  of  March,  and  to  receive  in  the  cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame  the  blessing  of  the  clergy  and  the  good  wishes  of  the 
Parisians. 

She  had  had  an  enthusiastic  reception,  this  beautiful 
and  much-loved  queen,  Marie  Antoinette.  She  had  driven 
into  Paris  in  an  open  carriage,  in  company  with  her  three 
children,  and  every  one  who  recognized  her  had  greeted 
her  with  a  cheerful  huzza,  and  followed  her  on  the  long 
road  to  Notre  Dame,  at  whose  door  the  prominent  clergy 
awaited  her,  the  cardinal,  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan,  at  their 
head,  to  introduce  her  to  the  house  of  the  King  of  all 
kings. 

Marie  Antoinette  was  alone;  only  the  governess  of  the 
children,  the  Duchess  de  Polignac,  sat  opposite  her,  upon 
the  back  seat  of  the  carriage,  and  by  her  side  the  Norman 
nurse,  in  her  charming  variegated  district  costume,  cra- 
dling in  her  arms  Louis  Charles,  the  young  Duke  of  Nor- 
mandy. By  her  side,  in  the  front  part  of  the  carriage, 
1 


2  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

sat  her  other  two  children — Therese,  the  princess  royal, 
the  first-born  daughter,  and  the  dauphin  Louis,  the  pre- 
sumptive heir  of  the  much-loved  King  Louis  the  Sixteenth. 

The  good  king  had  not  accompanied  his  spouse  on  this 
journey  to  Paris,  which  she  undertook  in  order  to  show  to 
her  dear,  yet  curious  Parisians  that  she  was  completely 
recovered,  and  that  her  children,  the  children  of  France, 
were  blossoming  for  the  future  like  fair  buds  of  hope  and 
peace. 

"  Go,  my  dear  Antoinette,"  the  king  had  said  to  his  queen, 
in  his  pleasant  way  and  with  his  good-natured  smile — "  go 
to  Paris  in  order  to  prepare  a  pleasure  for  my  good  people. 
Show  them  our  children,  and  receive  from  them  their 
thanks  for  the  happiness  which  you  have  given  to  me  and 
to  them.  I  will  not  go  with  you,  for  I  wish  that  you 
should  be  the  sole  recipient  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the  peo- 
ple and  their  joyful  acclamations.  I  will  not  share  your 
triumph,  but  I  shall  experience  it  in  double  measure  if  you 
enjoy  it  alone.  Go,  therefore,  my  beloved  Antoinette,  and 
rejoice  in  this  happy  hour." 

Marie  Antoinette  did  go,  and  she  did  rejoice  in  the  hap- 
piness of  the  hour.  While  riding  through  Paris,  hundreds 
recognized  her,  hundreds  hailed  her  with  loud  acclama- 
tions. As  she  left  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  in  order 
to  ascend  into  the  carriage  again  with  her  children  and 
their  governess,  one  would  be  tempted  to  think  that  the 
whole  square  in  front  of  the  church  had  been  changed  into 
a  dark,  tumultuous  sea,  which  dashed  its  raging  black 
waves  into  all  the  streets  debouching  on  the  square,  and 
was  filling  all  Paris  with  its  roar,  its  swell,  its  thunder- 
roll.  Yes,  all  Paris  was  there,  in  order  to  look  upon  Marie 
Antoinette,  who,  at  this  hour,  was  not  the  queen,  but  the 
fair  woman ;  the  happy  mother  who,  with  the  pride  of  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi,  desired  no  other  protection  and  no 
other  companionship  than  that  of  her  two  sons;  who,  her 
hand  resting  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  daughter,  needed  no 
other  maid  of  honor  to  appear  before  the  people  in  all  the 
splendor  and  all  the  dignity  of  the  Queen  of  France  and 
the  true  mother. 

Yes,  all  Paris  was  there  in  order  to  greet  the  queen,  the 
woman,  and  the  mother,  and  out  of  thousands  upon  thou- 


A   HAPPY    QUEEN.  3 

sands  of  throats  there  sounded  forth  the  loud-ringing  shout, 
"  Long  live  the  queen !  Long  live  Marie  Antoinette ! 
Long  live  the  fair  mother  and  the  fair  children  of  France!" 

Marie  Antoinette  felt  herself  deeply  moved  by  these 
shouts.  The  sight  of  the  faces  animated  with  joy,  of  the 
flashing  eyes,  and  the  intoxicated  peals  of  laughter,  kindled 
her  heart,  drove  the  blood  to  her  cheeks,  and  made  her 
countenance  beam  with  joy,  and  her  eyes  glisten  wfth 
delight.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  with  a  gesture  of 
inimitable  grace  took  the  youngest  son  from  the  arms  of 
the  nurse,  and  lifted  him  high  in  the  air,  in  order  to  dis- 
play this  last  token  of  her  happiness  and  her  motherly 
pride  to  the  Parisians,  who  had  not  yet  seen  the  child. 
The  little  hat,  which  had  been  placed  sideways  upon  the 
high  toupet  of  her  powdered  head,  had  dropped  upon  her 
neck ;  the  broad  lace  cuffs  had  fallen  back  from  the  arms 
which  lifted  the  child  into  the  air,  and  allowed  the  whole 
arm  to  be  seen  without  any  covering  above  the  elbow. 

The  eyes  of  the  Parisians  drank  in  this  spectacle  with 
perfect  rapture,  and  their  shouting  arose  every  moment 
like  a  burst  of  fanaticism. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is!"  resounded  everywhere  from  the 
mass.  "  What  a  wonderful  arm !  What  a  beautiful  neck !" 

A  deep  flush  mantled  the  face  of  Marie  Antoinette. 
These  words  of  praise,  which  were  a  tribute  to  the  beauty 
of  the  woman,  awoke  the  queen  from  the  ecstasy  into  which 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  subjects  had  transported  her.  She 
surrendered  the  child  again  to  the  arms  of  his  nurse,  and 
sank  down  quickly  like  a  frightened  dove  into  the  cushions 
of  the  carriage,  hastily  drawing  up  at  the  same  time  the 
lace  mantle  which  had  fallen  from  her  shoulders  and  re- 
placing her  hat  upon  her  head. 

"  Tell  the  coachman  to  drive  on  quickly,"  she  said  to  the 
nurse ;  and  while  the  latter  was  communicating  this  order, 
Marie  Antoinette  turned  to  her  daughter.  "  Now,  The- 
rese,"  asked  she,  laughing,  "  is  it  not  a  beautiful  spectacle — 
our  people  taking  so  much  pleasure  in  seeing  us?" 

The  little  princess  of  seven  years  shook  her  proud  little 
head  with  a  doubting,  dark  look. 

"Mamma,"  said  she,  "these  people  look  very  dirty  and 
ugly.  I  do  not  like  them!" 


• 


4  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"Be  still,  my  child,  be  still,"  whispered  the  queen,  has- 
tily, for  she  feared  lest  the  men  who  pressed  the  carriage 
so  closely  as  almost  to  touch  its  doors,  might  hear  the  un- 
thinking words  of  the  little  girl. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  not  deceived  herself.  A  man  in  a 
blouse,  who  had  even  laid  his  hand  upon  the  carriage,  and 
whose  head  almost  touched  the  princess — a  man  with  a 
blazing,  determined  face,  and  small,  piercing  black  eyes, 
had  heard  the  exclamation  of  the  princess,  and  threw  upon 
her  a  malignant,  threatening  glance. 

"Madame  loves  us  not,  because  we  are  ugly  and  dirty," 
he  said;  "but  we  should,  perhaps,  look  pretty  and  elegant 
too,  if  we  could  put  on  finery  to  ride  about  in  splendid 
carriages.  But  we  have  to  work,  and  we  have  to  suffer, 
that  we  may  be  able  to  pay  our  taxes.  For  if  we  did  not 
do  this,  our  king  and  his  family  would  not  be  able  to  strut 
around  in  this  grand  style.  We  are  dirty,  because  we  are 
working  for  the  king." 

"I  beg  you,  sir,"  replied  the  queen,  softly,  "to  forgive 
my  daughter ;  she  is  but  a  child,  and  does  not  know  what 
she  is  saying.  She  will  learn  from  her  parents,  however, 
to  love  our  good,  hard-working  people,  and  to  be  thankful 
for  their  love,  sir." 

"I  am  no  'sir,'  "  replied  the  man,  gruffly;  "I  am  the 
poor  cobbler  Simon,  nothing  more." 

"  Then  I  beg  you,  Master  Simon,  to  accept  from  my 
daughter,  as  a  remembrance,  this  likeness  of  her  father, 
and  to  drink  to  our  good  health,"  said  the  queen,  laying 
at  the  same  time  a  louis-d'or  in  the  hand  of  her  daughter, 
and  hastily  whispering  to  her,  "  Give  it  to  him." 

The  princess  hastened  to  execute  the  command  of  her 
mother,  and  laid  the  glistening  gold-piece  in  the  large, 
dirty  hand  which  was  extended  to  her.  But  when  she 
wanted  to  draw  back  her  delicate  little  hand,  the  large, 
bony  fingers  of  the  cobbler  closed  upon  it  and  held  it 
fast. 

"What  a  little  hand  it  is!"  he  said,  with  a  deriding 
laugh ;  "  I  wonder  what  would  become  of  these  fingers  if 
they  had  to  work!" 

"  Mamma,"  cried  the  princess,  anxiously,  "  order  the 
man  to  let  me  go;  he  hurts  me." 


A    HAPPY    QUEEN.  5 

The  cobbler  laughed  on,  but  dropped  the  hand  of  the 
princess. 

"Ah,"  cried  he,  scornfully,  "it  hurts  a  princess  only  to 
touch  the  hand  of  a  working-man.  It  would  be  a  great 
deal  better  to  keep  entirely  away  from  the  working-people, 
and  never  to  come  among  us." 

"Drive  forward  quickly!"  cried  the  queen  to  the  coach- 
man, with  loud,  commanding  voice. 

He  urged  on  the  horses,  and  the  people  who  had  hemmed 
in  the  carriage  closely,  and  listened  breathlessly  to  the 
conversation  of  the  queen  with  the  cobbler  Simon,  shrank 
timidly  back  before  the  prancing  steeds. 

The  queen  recovered  her  pleasant,  merry  smile,  and 
bowed  on  all  sides  while  the  carriage  rolled  swiftly  forward. 
The  people  again  expressed  their  thanks  with  loud  ac- 
clamations, and  praised  her  beauty  and  the  beauty  of  her 
children.  But  Marie  Antoinette  was  no  longer  carried  be- 
yond herself  by  these  words  of  praise,  and  did  not  rise 
again  from  her  seat. 

While  the  royal  carriage  was  disappearing  in  the  tumult 
and  throng  of  the  multitude,  Simon  the  cobbler  stood 
watching  it  with  his  mocking  smile.  He  felt  a  hand  upon 
his  arm,  and  heard  a  voice  asking  the  scornful  question : 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  this  Austrian  woman,  Master 
Simon?" 

The  cobbler  quickly  turned  round  to  confront  the  ques- 
tioner. He  saw,  standing  by  his  side,  a  little,  remarkably 
crooked  and  dwarfed  young  man,  whose  unnaturally  large 
head  was  set  upon  narrow,  depressed  shoulders,  and  whose 
whole  appearance  made  such  an  impression  upon  the  cob- 
bler that  the  latter  laughed  outright. 

"  Not  beautiful,  am  I?"  asked  the  stranger,  and  he  tried 
to  join  in  the  laugh  of  the  cobbler,  but  the  result  was  a 
mere  grimace,  which  made  his  unnaturally  large  mouth, 
with  its  thick,  colorless  lips,  extend  from  one  ear  to  the 
other,  displaying  two  fearful  rows  of  long,  greenish  teeth. 
"  Not  beautiful  at  all,  am  I?  Dreadfully  ugly !"  exclaimed 
the  stranger,  as  Simon's  laughter  mounted  higher  and 
higher. 

"You  are  somewhat  remarkable,  at  least,"  replied  the 
cobbler.  "  If  I  did  not  hear  you  talk  French,  and  see  you 


6  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

standing  up  straight  like  one  of  us,  I  should  think  you 
were  the  monstrous  toad  in  the  fable  that  I  read  about  a 
short  time  ago." 

"I  am  the  monstrous  toad  of  the  fable,"  replied  the 
stranger,  laughing.  "  I  have  merely  disguised  myself  to- 
day as  a  man  in  order  to  look  at  this  Austrian  woman  with 
her  young  brood,  and  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  once 
more,  Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  her?" 

"No,  indeed,  I  have  not  fallen  in  love  with  her,"  ejacu- 
lated the  cobbler.  "  God  is  my  witness — " 

"And  why  should  you  call  God  to  witness?"  asked  the 
other,  quickly.  "  Do  you  suppose  it  is  so  great  a  misfor- 
tune not  to  love  this  Austrian?" 

"No,  I  certainly  do  not  believe  that,"  answered  the 
other,  thoughtfully.  "  I  suppose  that  it  is,  perhaps,  no 
sin  before  God  not  to  love  the  queen,  although  it  may  be 
before  man,  and  that  it  is  not  the  first  time  that  it  has 
been  atoned  for  by  long  and  dreary  imprisonment.  But  I 
do  love  freedom,  and  therefore  I  shall  take  care  not  to  tell 
a  stranger  what  I  think." 

"You  love  freedom!"  exclaimed  the  stranger.  "Then 
give  me  your  hand,  and  accept  my  thanks  for  the  word, 
my  brother." 

"Your  brother!"  replied  the  cobbler,  astounded.  "  I  do 
not  know  you,  and  yet  you  call  yourself,  without  more  for- 
mal introduction,  my  brother." 

"  You  have  said  that  you  love  freedom,  and  therefore  I 
greet  you  as  my  brother,"  replied  the  stranger.  "All 
those  who  love  freedom  are  brothers,  for  they  confess  them- 
selves children  of  the  same  gracious  and  good  mother  who 
makes  no  difference  between  her  children,  but  loves  them 
all  with  equal  intensity  and  equal  devotion,  and  it  is  all 
the  same  to  her  whether  this  one  of  her  sons  is  prince  or 
count,  and  that  one  workman  or  citizen.  For  our  mother, 
Freedom,  we  are  aH^alike — we  are  all  brethren. " 

"That  sounds  very  finely,"  said  the  cobbler,  shaking  his 
head.  "  There  is  only  one  fault  that  I  can  find  with  it,  it  is  not 
true.  For  if  we  were  all  alike,  and  were  all  brothers,  why 
should  the  king  ride  round  in  his  gilded  chariot,  while  I, 
an  old  cobbler,  sit  on  my  bench  and  have  my  face  covered 
with  sweat?" 


A   HAPPY    QUEEN.  7 

"The  king  is  no  son  of  Freedom!"  exclaimed  the 
stranger,  with  an  angry  gesture.  "  The  king  is  a  son  of 
Tyranny,  and  therefore  he  wants  to  make  his  enemies,  the 
sons  of  Freedom,  to  be  his  servants,  his  slaves,  and  to  bind 
our  arms  with  fetters.  But  shall  we  always  bear  this? 
Shall  we  not  rise  at  last  out  of  the  dust  into  which  we  have 
been  trodden?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  if  we  can,  then  we  will,"  said  Simon, 
with  his  gruff  laugh.  "  But  here  is  the  hitch,  sir — we  can- 
not do  it.  The  king  has  the  power  to  hold  us  in  his  fet- 
ters; and  this  fine  lady,  Madame  Freedom,  of  whom  you 
say  that  she  is  our  mother,  lets  it  come  to  pass,  notwith- 
standing that  her  sons  are  bound  down  in  servitude  and 
abasement." 

"  It  must  be  for  a  season  yet,"  answered  the  other,  with 
loud,  rasping  voice ;  "  but  the  day  of  a  rising  is  at  hand, 
and  shows  with  a  laughing  face  how  those  whom  she  will 
destroy  are  rushing  swiftly  upon  their  own  doom." 

"  What  nonsense  is  that  you  are  talking?"  asked  the 
cobbler.  "  Those  who  are  going  to  be  destroyed  by  Madame 
Liberty  are  working  out  their  own  ruin?" 

"  And  yet  they  are  doing  it,  Master  Simon ;  they  are  dig- 
ging their  own  graves,  only  they  do  not  see  it,  and  do  not 
know  it;  for  the  divinity  which  means  to  destroy  them  has 
smitten  them  with  blindness.  There  is  this  queen,  this 
Austrian  woman.  Do  you  not  see  with  your  wise  eyes 
how  like  a  busy  spider  she  is  weaving  her  own  shroud?" 

"Now,  that  is  certainly  an  error,"  said  Simon;  "the 
queen  does  not  work  at  all.  She  lets  the  people  work  for 
her." 

"  I  tell  you,  man,  she  does  work,  she  is  working  at  her 
own  shroud,  and  I  think  she  has  got  a  good  bit  of  it  ready. 
She  has  nice  friends,  too,  to  help  her  in  it,  and  to  draw 
up  the  threads  for  this  royal  spider,  and  so  get  ready  what 
is  needed  for  this  shroud.  There,  for  example,  is  that  fine 
Duke  de  Coigny.  Do  you  know  who  that  Duke  de  Coigny 
is?" 

"No,  indeed,  I  know  nothing  about  it;  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  court,  and  know  nothing  about  the  court 
rabble." 

"  There  you  are  right,  they  are  a  rabble,"  cried  the  other, 


8  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

laughing  in  return.  "  I  know  it,  for  I  am  so  unfortunate 
as  not  to  be  able  to  say  with  you  that  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  court.  I  have  gone  into  palaces,  and  I  shall  come 
out  again,  but  I  promise  you  that  my  exit  shall  make  more 
stir  than  my  entrance.  Now,  I  will  tell  you  who  the  Duke 
de  Coigny  is.  He  is  one  of  the  three  chief  paramours  of 
the  queen,  one  of  the  great  favorites  of  the  Austrian 
sultana." 

"  Well,  now,  that  is  jolly, "  cried  the  cobbler ;  "  you 
are  a  comical  rogue,  sir.  So  the  queen  has  her  para- 
mours?" 

"  Yes.  You  know  that  the  Duke  de  Besenval,  at  the 
time  that  the  Austrian  came  as  dauphiness  to  France,  said 
toher:  'These  hundred  thousand  Parisians,  madame,  who 
have  come  out  to  meet  you,  are  all  your  lovers.'  Now  she 
takes  this  expression  of  Besenval  in  earnest,  and  wants  to 
make  every  Parisian  a  lover  of  hers.  Only  wait,  only  wait, 
it  will  be  your  turn  by  and  by.  You  will  be  able  to  press 
the  hand  of  this  beautiful  Austrian  tenderly  to  your  lips." 

"Well,  I  will  let  you  know  in  advance,  then,"  said 
Simon,  savagely,  "  that  I  will  press  it  in  such  right  good 
earnest,  that  it  shall  always  bear  the  marks  of  it.  You 
were  speaking  just  now  of  the  three  chief  paramours — what 
are  the  names  of  the  other  two?" 

"The  second  is  your  fine  Lord  de  Adhemar;  a  fool,  a 
rattle-head,  a  booby ;  but  he  is  handsome,  and  a  jolly  lover. 
Our  queen  likes  handsome  men,  and  everybody  knows  that 
she  is  one  of  the  laughing  kind,  a  merry  fly,  particularly 
since  the  carousals  on  the  palace  terrace." 

"  Carousals!     What  was  that?" 

"  Why,  you  poor  innocent  child,  that  is  the  name  they 
give  to  those  nightly  promenades  that  our  handsome  queen 
took  a  year  ago  in  the  moonlight  on  the  terrace  at  Ver- 
sailles. Oh,  that  was  a  merry  time !  The  iron  fences  of 
the  park  were  not  closed,  and  the  dear  people  had  a  right 
to  enter,  and  could  walk  near  the  queen  in  the  moonlight, 
and  hear  the  fine  music  which  was  concealed  behind  the 
hedges.  You  just  ask  the  good-looking  officer  of  the  lan- 
cers, who  sat  one  evening  on  a  bench  between  two  hand- 
some women,  dressed  in  white,  and  joked  and  laughed 
with  them.  He  can  tell  you  how  Marie  Antoinette  can 


A   HAPPY   QUEEN.  9 

laugh,  and  what  fine  nonsense  her  majesty  could  afford  to 
indulge  in."  * 

"I  wish  I  knew  him,  and  he  would  tell  me  about  it," 
cried  cobbler  Simon,  striking  his  fists  together.  "  I  always 
like  to  hear  something  bad  about  this  Austrian  woman,  for 
I  hate  her  and  the  whole  court  crowd  besides.  What  right 
have  they  to  strut  and  swell,  and  put  on  airs,  while  we 
have  to  work  and  suffer  from  morning  till  night?  Why 
is  their  life  nothing  but  jollity,  and  ours  nothing  but  mis- 
ery? I  think  I  am  of  just  as  much  consequence  as  the 
king,  and  my  woman  would  look  just  as  nice  as  the  queen, 
if  she  would  put  on  fine  clothes  and  ride  round  in  a  gilded 
carriage.  What  puts  them  up  and  puts  us  down?" 

"  I  tell  you  why.  It  is  because  we  are  ninnies  and  fools, 
and  allow  them  to  laugh  in  their  sleeves  at  us,  and  make 
divinities  out  of  themselves,  before  whom  the  people,  or, 
as  they  call  them,  the  rabble,  are  to  fall  upon  their  knees. 
But  patience,  patience!  There  will  come  a  time  when 
they  will  not  laugh,  nor  compel  the  people  to  fall  upon 
their  knees  and  beg  for  favor.  But  no  favor  shall  be 
granted  to  them.  They  shall  meet  their  doom." 

"Ha!  I  wish  the  time  were  here,"  shouted  the  cobbler, 
laughing;  "and  I  hope  I  may  be  there  when  they  meet 
their  punishment." 

"Well,  my  friend,  that  only  depends  upon  yourself," 
said  the  stranger.  "  The  time  will  come,  and  if  you  wish 
you  can  contribute  your  share,  that  it  may  approach  with 
more  rapid  steps." 

"  What  can  I  do?  Tell  me,  for  I  am  ready  for  every 
thing?" 

"  You  can  help  whet  the  knife,  that  it  may  cut  the  bet- 
ter," said  the  stranger, -with  a  horrible  grimace.  "Come, 
come,  do  not  look  at  me  so  astonished,  brother.  There 
are  already  a  good  number  of  knife-sharpeners  in  the  good 
city  of  Paris,  and  if  you  want  to  join  their  company,  come 
this  evening  to  me,  and  I  will  make  you  acquainted  with 
some,  and  introduce  you  to  our  guild." 

"  Where  do  you  live,  sir,  and  what  is  your  name?"  asked 
the  cobbler,  with  glowing  curiosity. 

"  I  live  in  the  stable  of  the  Count  d'Artois,  and  my  name 

is  Jean  Paul  Marat. " 

• 

*  See  Madame  de  Campane.    "Memoires,"  vol.  i. 


10  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"In  the  stable!"  cried  the  cobbler.  "My  faith,  I  had 
not  supposed  you  were  a  hostler  or  a  coachman.  It  must 
be  a  funny  sight,  M.  Marat,  to  see  you  mounted  upon  a 
horse." 

"  You  think  that  such  a  big  toad  as  I  does  not  belong 
there  exactly.  Well,  there  you  are  right,  brother  Simon. 
My  real  business  is  not  at  all  with  the  horses,  but  with  the 
men  in  the  stable.  I  am  the  horse-doctor,  brother  Simon, 
horse-doctor  of  the  Count  d'Artois;  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  am  a  tolerably  skilful  doctor,  for  I  have  yoked  to- 
gether many  a  hostler  and  jockey  whom  the  stable-keepers 
of  the  dear  Artois  have  favored  with  a  liberal  dispensation 
of  their  lash.  So,  come  this  evening  to  me,  not  only  that 
I  may  introduce  you  to  good  society,  but  come  if  you  are 
sick.  I  will  restore  you,  and  it  shall  cost  you  nothing.  I 
cure  my  brothers  of  the  people  without  any  pay,  for  it  is 
not  the  right  thing  for  brothers  to  take  money  one  of  an- 
other. So,  brother  Simon,  I  shall  look  for  you  this  even- 
ing at  the  stable;  but  now  I  must  leave  you,  for  my  sick 
folks  are  expecting  me.  Just  one  more  word.  If  you 
come  about  seven  o'clock  to  visit  me,  the  old  witch  that 
keeps  the  door  will  certainly  tell  you  that  I  am  not  at 
home.  I  will,  therefore,  give  you  the  pass-word,  which 
will  allow  you  to  go  in.  It  is  'Liberty,  Equality,  Frater- 
nity.' Good-by." 

He  nodded  to  the  cobbler  with  a  fearful  grimace,  and 
strode  away  quickly,  in  spite  of  not  being  able  to  lift  his 
left  foot  over  the  broad  square  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Master  Simon  looked  after  him  at  first  with  a  derisive 
smile,  and  this  diminutive  figure,  with  his  great  head,  on 
which  a  high,  black  felt  hat  just  kept  its  position,  seemed 
to  amuse  him  excessively.  All  at  once  a  thought  struck 
him,  and,  like  an  arrow  impelled  from  the  bow,  he  dashed 
forward  and  ran  after  Jean  Paul  Marat. 

'.'Doctor  Marat,  Doctor  Marat!"  he  shouted,  breathless, 
from  a  distance. 

Marat  stood  still  and  looked  around  with  a  malicious 
glance. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?"  snarled  he,  "and  who  is  calling  my 
name  so  loud?" 

"  It  is  I,  brother  Marat,"  answered  the  cobbler,  panting. 


A   HAPPY   QUEEN.  11 

"  I  have  been  running  after  you  because  you  have  forgotten 
something." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Marat,  feeling  in  his  pockets  with 
his  long  fingers.  "  I  have  my  handkerchief  and  the  piece 
of  black  bread  that  makes  my  breakfast.  I  have  not  for- 
gotten anything." 

"  Yes,  Jean  Paul  Marat,  you  have  forgotten  something," 
answered  Master  Simon.  "  You  were  going  to  tell  me  the 
names  of  the  three  chief  paramours  of  the  queen,  and  you 
have  given  only  two — the  Duke  de  Coigny  and  Lord  Ad- 
hemar.  You  see  I  have  a  good  memory,  and  retain  all  that 
you  told  me.  So  give  me  the  name  of  the  third  one,  for  I 
will  confess  to  you  that  I  should  like  to  have  something  to 
say  about  this  matter  in  my  club  this  afternoon,  and  it 
will  make  quite  a  sensation  to  come  primed  with  this  story 
about  the  Austrian  woman." 

"Well,  I  like  that,  I  like  that,"  said  Marat,  laughing 
so  as  to  show  his  mouth  from  one  ear  to  the  other.  "  Now, 
that  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  club,  where  you  can  tell  all 
these  little  stories  about  the  queen  and  the  court,  and  it 
will  be  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  tell  you  any  such  matters 
as  these  to  communicate  to  your  club,  for  it  is  always  a 
good  thing  to  have  any  thing  that  takes  place  at  Versailles 
and  St.  Cloud  get  talked  over  here  at  Paris  among  the  dear 
good  people." 

"In  St.  Cloud?"  asked  the  cobbler.  "What  is  it  that 
can  happen  there?  That  is  nothing  at  all  but  a  tiresome, 
old-forgotten  pleasure  palace  of  the  king." 

"  It  is  lively  enough  there  now,  depend  upon  it,"  replied 
Marat,  with  his  sardonic  laugh.  "  King  Louis  the  well  be- 
loved has  given  this  palace  to  his  wife,  in  order  that  she 
may  establish  there  a  larger  harem  than  Trianon;  that 
miserable,  worthless  little  mouse-nest,  where  virtue,  honor, 
and  worth  get  hectored  to  death,  is  not  large  enough  for 
her.  Yes,  yes,  that  fine,  great  palace  of  the  French  kings, 
the  noble  St.  Cloud,  is  now  the  heritage  and  possession  of 
this  fine  Austrian.  And  do  you  know  what  she  has  done? 
Close  by  the  railing  which  separates  the  park  from  St. 
Cloud,  and  near  the  entrance,  she  has  had  a  tablet  put  up, 
on  which  are  written  the  conditions  on  which  the  public 
are  allowed  to  enter  the  park." 
2 


12  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"Well,  that  is  nothing  new,"  said  the  cobbler,  im- 
patiently. "They  have  such  a  board  put  up  at  all  the 
royal  gardens,  and  everywhere  the  public  is  ordered,  in  the 
name  of  the  king,  not  to  do  any  injury,  and  not  to  wander 
from  the  regular  paths." 

"Well,  that  is  just;  it  is  ordered  in  the  name  of  the 
king;  but  in  St.  Cloud,  it  runs  in  the  name  of  the  queen. 
Yes,  yes,  there  you  may  see  in  great  letters  upon  the  board ; 
'In  the  name  of  the  queen.'  *  It  is  not  enough  for  us  that 
a  king  sits  upon  our  neck,  and  imposes  his  commands  upon 
us  and  binds  us.  We  have  now  another  ruler  in  France, 
prescribing  laws  and  writing  herself  sovereign.  We  have  a 
new  police  regulation  in  the  name  of  the  queen,  a  state 
within  the  state.  Oh,  the  spider  is  making  a  jolly  mesh  of 
it!  In  the  Trianon  she  made  the  beginning.  There  the 
police  regulations  have  always  been  in  the  name  of  the 
queen ;  and  because  the  policy  was  successful  there,  it  ex- 
tends its  long  finger  still  further,  issues  a  new  proclama- 
tion against  the  people,  appropriates  to  itself  new  domain, 
and  proposes  to  gradually  encompass  all  France  with  its 
cords." 

"  That  is  rascally,  that  is  wrong,"  cried  the  cobbler,  rais- 
ing his  clinched  fists  in  the  air. 

"  But  that  is  not  all,  brother.  The  queen  goes  still 
further.  Down  to  the  present  time  we  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  the  men  who  stoop  to  be  the  mean  servants  of 
tyrants  array  themselves  in  the  monkey-jackets  of  the 
king's  livery;  but  in  St.  Cloud,  the  Swiss  guards  at  the 
gates,  the  palace  servants,  in  one  word,  the  entire  menial 
corps,  array  themselves  in  the  queen's  livery;  and  if  you 
are  walking  in  the  park  of  St.  Cloud,  you  are  no  longer  in 
France  and  on  French  soil,  but  in  an  Austrian  province, 
where  a  foreigner  can  establish  her  harem  and  make  her 
laws,  and  yet  a  virtuous  and  noble  people  does  not  rise  in 
opposition  to  it." 

"It  does  not  know  anything  about  it,  brother  Marat," 
said  Simon,  eagerly.  "  It  knows  very  little  about  the  vices 
and  follies  of  the  queen." 

"  Well,  tell   the  people,  then ;   report  to   them  what   I 

*  "De  parlareine"  was  the  expression  which  was  then  in  the  mouth  of 
all  France  and  stirred  everybody's  rage. 


A    HAPPY    QUEEN.  13 

have  told  you,  and  make  it  your  duty  that  it  be  talked  over 
among  other  friends,  and  made  generally  known." 

"  Oh!  that  shall  be,  that  shall  certainly  be,"  said  Simon, 
cheerily,  "  but  you  have  not  given  me  the  name  of  that 
third  lover  yet." 

"  Oh !  the  third — that  is  Lord  Besenval,  the  inspector 
general  of  the  Swiss  guard,  the  chief  general  of  the  army, 
and  the  commander  of  the  Order  of  Louis.  You  see  it  is 
a  great  advantage  for  a  man  to  be  a  lover  of  the  queen,  for 
in  that  way  he  comes  to  a  high  position.  While  King 
Louis  the  Fifteenth,  that  monster  of  vice,  was  living, 
Besenval  was  only  colonel  of  the  Swiss  guard,  and  all  he 
could  do  was  once  in  a  while  to  take  part  in  the  orgies  at 
the  (Eil  de  Boeuf.  But  now  the  queen  has  raised  him  to  a 
very  high  place.  All  St.  Cloud  and  Trianon  form  the  (Eil 
de  Bueuf ,  where  Marie  Antoinette  celebrates  her  orgies,  and 
General  Besenval  is  made  one  of  the  first  directors  of  the 
sports.  Now  you  know  every  thing,  do  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  Doctor  Marat,  now  I  have  a  general  run  of  every 
thing,  and  I  thank  you ;  but  I  hope  that  you  will  tell  me 
more  this  evening,  for  your  stories  are  vastly  entertaining. " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  shall  tell  you  plenty  more  of  the  same 
sort,  for  the  queen  takes  good  care  that  we  shall  always 
have  material  for  such  stories.  Yet,  unfortunately,  I  have 
no  time  now,  for — " 

"  I  know,  I  know,  you  have  got  to  visit  your  sick  peo- 
ple," said  Simon,  nodding  confidentially  to  him.  "I  will 
not  detain  you  any  longer.  Good-by,  my  dear  Doctor 
Marat.  We  shall  meet  this  evening." 

He  sprang  quickly  away,  and  soon  disappeared  round 
the  next  corner.  Marat  looked  after  him  with  a  wicked, 
triumphant  expression  in  his  features. 

"So  far  good,  so  far  good,"  muttered  he,  shaking  his 
head  with  choler.  "  In  this  way  I  have  got  to  win  over  the 
soldiers  and  the  people  to  freedom.  The  cobbler  will  make 
an  able  and  practicable  soldier,  and  with  his  nice  little 
stories,  he  will  win  over  a  whole  company.  Triumph  on, 
you  proud  Bourbons;  go  on  dreaming  in  your  gilded  pal- 
aces, surrounded  by  your  Swiss  guards.  Keep  on  believ- 
ing that  you  have  the  power  in  your  hands,  and  that  no 
one  can  take  it  from  you.  The  time  will  come  when  the 


14  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

people  will  disturb  your  fine  dream,  and  when  the  little, 
despised,  ugly  Marat,  whom  no  one  now  knows,  and  who 
creeps  around  in  your  stables  like  a  poisonous  rat,  shall 
confront  you  as  a  power  before  which  you  shall  shrink 
away  and  throw  yourselves  trembling  into  the  dust.  There 
shall  go  by  no  day  in  which  I  and  my  friends  shall  not  win 
soldiers  for  our  side,  and  the  silly,  simple  fool,  Marie  An- 
toinette, makes  it  an  easy  thing  for  us.  Go  on  committing 
your  childish  pranks,  which,  when  the  time  shall  threaten 
a  little,  will  justify  the  most  villanous  deeds  and  the  most 
shameless  acts,  and  I  will  keep  the  run  of  all  the  turns  of 
the  times,  and  this  fine  young  queen  cannot  desire  that  we 
should  look  at  the  world  with  such  simple  eyes  as  she  does. 
Yes,  fair  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  thou  hast  thy  Swiss 
guards,  who  fight  for  thee,  and  thou  must  pay  them ;  but 
I,  I  have  only  one  soldier  who  takes  ground  for  me  against 
thee,  and  whom  I  do  not  have  to  pay  at  all.  My  soldier's 
name  is  Calumny.  I  tell  thee,  fair  queen,  with  this  ally  I 
can  overcome  all  thy  Swiss  guards,  and  the  whole  horde  of 
thy  armies.  For,  on  the  earth  there  is  no  army  corps  that 
is  so  strong  as  Calumny.  Hurrah !  long  life  to  thee,  my 
sworn  ally,  Calumny!" 


CHAPTEE   II. 

MADAME     ADELAIDE, 

QUEEN  MAKIE  ANTOINETTE  had  returned,  after  her  Paris 
ride,  to  her  own  Versailles.  She  was  silent  the  whole  of 
the  way,  and  the  Duchess  de  Polignac  had  sought  in  vain 
to  cheer  her  friend  with  light  and  pleasant  talk,  and  drive 
away  the  clouds  from  her  lofty  brow.  Marie  Antoinette 
had  only  responded  by  enforced  smiles  and  half-words, 
and  then,  settling  back  into  the  carriage,  had  gazed  with 
dreamy  looks  into  the  heavens,  whose  cheerful  blue  called 
out  no  reflection  upon  the  fair  face  of  the  queen. 

As  they  drew  into  the  great  court  of  the  palace  at  Ver- 
sailles, the  drum-beat  of  the  Swiss  guards,  presenting  arms, 
and  the  general  stir  which  followed  the  approach  of  the 
queen,  appeared  to  awaken  her  from  her  sorrowful  thoughts, 


MADAME   ADELAIDE.     »  15 

and  she  straightened  herself  up  and  cast  her  glances  about. 
They  fell  quite  accidentally  upon  the  child  which  was  in 
the  arms  of  the  nurse  opposite,  and  which,  with  great  wide- 
open  eyes,  was  looking  up  to  the  heavens,  as  its  mother  had 
done  before. 

In  the  intensity  of  her  motherly  love,  the  queen  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  the  child  and  drew  it  to  her  heart,  and 
pressed  a  burning  kiss  upon  its  lips. 

"Ah!  my  child,  my  dear  child,"  said  she,  softly,  "you 
have  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  made  your  entry  into  Paris, 
and  heard  the  acclamations  of  the  people.  May  you,  so 
long  as  you  live,  always  be  the  recipient  of  kindly  greet- 
ings, and  never  again  hear  such  words  as  that  dreadful  man 
spoke  to  us  to-day!" 

She  pressed  the  little  Duke  of  Normandy  closely  to  her 
heart,  and  quite  forgot  that  she  was  all  this  while  in  the 
carriage ;  that  near  the  open  portal  the  hostlers  and  lackeys 
were  awaiting  in  a  respectful  posture  the  dismounting  of 
the  queen ;  that  the  drums  were  all  the  while  beating,  and 
that  the  guards  were  standing  before  the  gates  in  the  fixed 
attitude  of  presenting  arms. 

The  Duchess  de  Polignac  ventured  to  suggest  in  softly- 
spoken  words  the  necessity  of  dismounting,  and  the  queen, 
with  her  little  boy  in  her  arms,  sprang  lightly  and  spiritedly, 
without  accepting  the  assistance  of  the  master  of  the 
grooms,  out  of  the  carriage,  smiling  cheerily,  greeting 
the  assembled  chamberlains  as  she  passed  by,  hurried  into 
the  palace  and  ran  up  the  great  marble  staircase.  The 
Duchess  de  Polignac  made  haste  to  follow  her,  while  the 
Princess  Therese  and  the  dauphin  were  received  by  their 
dames  of  honor  and  led  into  their  respective  apartments. 
The  Norman  nurse,  shaking  her  head,  hurried  after  the 
queen,  and  the  chamberlains  and  both  the  maids  of  honor, 
shaking  their  heads,  too,  followed  her  into  the  great  ante- 
chamber. After  riding  out,  the  queen  was  in  the  habit  of 
dismissing  them  there,  but  to-day  Marie  Antoinette  had 
gone  into  her  own  suite  of  rooms  without  saying  a  word, 
and  the  door  was  already  closed. 

"  What  shall  we  do  now?"  asked  both  the  .maids  of 
honor  of  the  cavaliers,  and  received  only  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  for  reply. 


16  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  We  shall  have  to  wait,"  at  last  said  the  Marchioness  de 
Mailly.  "  Perhaps  .her  majesty  will  have  the  kindness  to 
remember  us  and  to  permit  us  to  withdraw." 

"And  if  she  should  happen  to  forget  it,"  answered  the 
Princess  de  Chimay,  "  we  shall  have  to  stand  here  the 
whole  day,  while  the  queen  in  Trianon  is  amusing  herself 
with  the  fantastic  pastoral  plays." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  there  is  a  country  festival  in  Trianon 
to-day,"  said  the  Prince  de  Castines,  shrugging  iris  shoul- 
ders, "  and  it  might  easily  happen  that  we  should  be  for- 
gotten, and,  like  the  unforgetable  wife  of  Lot,  have  to 
stand  here  playing  the  ridiculous  part  of  pillars  of  salt." 

"No,  there  comes  our  deliverance,"  whispered  the  Mar- 
chioness de  Mailly,  pointing  to  a  carriage  which  just  then 
came  rolling  across  the  broad  palace-square.  '  It  was  yes- 
terday resolved  in  secret  council  at  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence's, that  Madame  Adelaide  should  make  one  more 
attempt  to  bring  the  queen  to  reason,  and  make  her  under- 
stand what  is  becoming  and  what  is  unbecoming  to  a  Queen 
of  France.  Now  look  you,  in  accordance  with  this  resolve, 
Madame  Adelaide  is  coming  to  Versailles  to  pay  a  visit  to 
her  distinguished  niece." 

Just  then  the  carriage  of  the  Princess  Adelaide,  daugh- 
ter of  Louis  the  Fifteenth,  and  aunt  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth, 
drove  through  the  great  gate  into  the  guarded  vestibule  of 
the  palace;  two  outriders  rode  in  advance,  two  lackeys 
stood  on  the  stand  behind  the  carriage,  and  upon  the  step 
on  each  side,  a  page  in  richly-embroidered  garments. 

Before  the  middle  portal,  which  could  only  be  used  by 
the  royal  family,  and  which  had  never  been  desecrated  by 
the  entrance  of  one  who  was  "lowly-born,"  the  carriage 
came  to  a  stand-still.  The  lackeys  hastened  to  open  the 
gate,  and  a  lady,  advanced  in  years,  gross  in  form,  with  an 
irritable  face  well  pitted  with  pock-marks,  and  wearing  no 
other  expression  than  supercilious  pride  and  a  haughty  in- 
difference, dismounted  with  some  difficulty,  leaning  upon 
the  shoulder  of  her  page,  and  toiled  up  the  steps  which 
conducted  to  the  great  vestibule. 

The  runner  sprang  before  her  up  the  great  staircase  cov- 
ered with  its  carpets,  and  with  his  long  staff  rapped  on  the 
door  of  the  first  antechamber  that  led  to  th.3  apartments  of 


MADAME    ADELAIDE.  17 

the  queen.  "  Madame  Adelaide!"  shouted  he  with  a  loud 
voice,  and  the  lackey  repeated  it  in  the  same  tone,  quickly 
opening  the  door  of  the  second  antechamber;  and  the  word 
was  taken  up  by  the  chamberlains,  and  repeated  and  car- 
ried along  where  the  queen  was  sitting. 

Marie  Antoinette  shrugged  herself  together  a  little  at 
this  announcement,  which  interrupted  her  while  engaged 
in  charming  unrestrained  conversation  with  the  Duchess 
de  Polignac,  and  a  shadow  flitted  across  her  lofty  brow. 

With  fiery  quickness  she  flung  her  arms  around  the  neck 
of  her  friend,  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips.  "  Fare- 
well, Julia;  Madame  Adelaide  is  coming:  that  is  just  the 
same  as  irritation  and  annoyance.  She  may  not  bear  the 
least  suspicion  of  this  upon  her  fine  and  dearly-loved  face, 
and  just  because  they  are  not  there,  I  must  tell  you,  my 
dear  friend,  to  leave  me.  But  hold  yourself  in  readiness, 
after  Madame  Annoyance  has  left  me,  to  ride  with  me  to 
Trianon.  The  queen  must  remain  here  half  an  hour  still, 
but  she  will  be  rewarded  for  it,  for  Marie  Antoinette  will 
afterward  go  with  her  Julia  to  Trianon  to  spend  a  half  day 
of  pleasure  with  her  husband  and  friends." 

"  And  to  impart  to  her  friends  an  eternity  of  blissful 
recollections,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  charming  smile, 
pressing  the  hand  of  the  queen  to  her  lips,  and  taking  her 
leave  with  inimitable  grace,  in  order  to  pass  out  through 
the  little  side-door  which  entered  the  corridor  through  a 
porcelain  cabinet,  intending  then  to  visit  the  rooms  of  the 
'children  of  France.' 

At  the  same  moment  in  which  the  lofty,  dignified  form 
of  the  duchess  disappeared  through  the  side-door,  both 
wings  of  the  main  entrance  were  flung  open,  and  the  two 
maids  of  honor  of  the  queen  advanced  to  the  threshold,  and 
made  so  deep  a  reverence  that  their  immense  petticoats 
expanded  like  a  kettle.  Then  they  took  a  step  backward, 
made  another  reverence  so  profound  that  their  heads,  bear- 
ing coiff tires  a  foot  and  a  half  high,  fell  upon  their  breasts. 

"Madame  Adelaide!"  they  both  ejaculated  as  with  one 
voice,  slowly  straightening  themselves  up  and  taking  their 
places  at  the  sides  of  the  door. 

The  princess  now  appeared  upon  the  threshold;  behind 
her,  her  maids  of  honor  and  master  of  ceremonies,  the 


18  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

grand-chamberlain,  the  pages,  and  both  masters  of  grooms, 
standing  in  the  great  antechambers. 

At  the  appearance  of  the  maids  of  honor,  Marie  Antoi- 
nette had  taken  her  position  in  the  middle  of  the  cham- 
ber, and  could  not  repress  a  faint  smile,  as  with  erect  head 
she  noticed  the  confusion  instant  upon  the  princess's  im- 
posing entrance. 

Madame  Adelaide  advanced  some  steps,  for  the  queen 
did  not  change  her  position  nor  hasten  toward  her  as  she 
had  perhaps  expected;  her  irritated  look  increased  still 
more,  and  she  did  not  take  a  seat. 

"I  come  perhaps  at  an  inconvenient  season  for  your 
majesty,"  said  she,  with  a  tart  smile.  "The  queen  per- 
haps was  just  upon  the  point  of  going  to  Trianon,  whither, 
as  I  hear,  the  king  has  already  proceeded?" 

"  Has  your  highness  heard  that?"  asked  the  queen,  smil- 
ing. "  1  wonder  what  sharp  ears  Madame  Adelaide  always 
has  to  catch  such  a  trifling  rumor,  while  my  younger  ones 
have  never  caught  the  least  hint  of  the  important  approach 
of  the  princess,  and  so  I  am  equally  surprised  and  delighted 
at  the  unexpected  appearance  of  my  gracious  and  loving 
aunt." 

Every  one  of  these  words,  which  were  spoken  so  cheerily 
and  with  such  a  pleasant  smile,  seemed  to  pierce  the  prin- 
cess like  the  prick  of  a  needle,  and  caused  her  to  press  her 
lips  together  in  just  such  a  way  as  if  she  wanted  to  check 
an  outcry  of  pain  or  suppress  some  hidden  rage.  Marie 
Antoinette,  while  speaking  of  the  sharp  ears  which  ma- 
dame  always  had,  had  hinted  at  the  advanced  age  no  less 
than  at  the  curiosity  of  the  princess,  and  had  brought  her 
young  and  unburdened  ears  into  very  advantageous  con- 
trast with  them. 

"  Would  your  majesty  grant  me  the  favor  of  an  inter- 
view?" asked  Madame  Adelaide,  who  did  not  possess  the 
power  <of  entering  on  a  contest  with  her  exalted  niece,  with 
sharp  yet  graceful  words. 

'"I  am  prepared  with  all  pleasure,"  answered  the  queen, 
cheerfully ;  "  and  it  depends  entirely  upon  madame  whether 
the  audience  shall  be  private  or  public." 

"  I  beg  for  a  half  hour  of  entire  privacy,"  said  Madame 
Adelaide,  with  choler. 


MADAME    ADELAIDE.  19 

"A  private  audience,  ladies!"  called  the  queen  to  her 
maids  of  honor,  as  motioning  with  her  hand  she  dismissed 
them.  Then  she  directed  her  great  brilliant  eyes  to  the 
door  of  the  antechamber.  "  My  lord  grooms,  in  half  an 
hour  I  should  like  to  have  my  carriage  ready  for  Trianon." 

The  maids  of  honor  withdrew  into  the  great  antecham- 
ber, and  closed  the  doors  behind  them. 

The  queen  and  Madame  Adelaide  were  alone. 

"Let  us  sit,  if  it  pleases  you,'''  said  Marie  Antoinette, 
motioning  the  princess  to  an  arm-chair,  while  she  took  her 
own  place  upon  a  simple  ottoman.  "  You  have  something 
to  say  to  me,  and  I  am  entirely  ready  to  hear  you." 

"  Would  to  God,  madame,  that  you  would  not  only  hear 
my  words,"  said  Madame  Adelaide,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  that 
you  would  take  them  to  heart  as  well!" 

"If  they  deserve  it,  I  certainly  shall,"  said  the  queen, 
smiling. 

"They  certainly  do  deserve  it,"  said  the  princess,  "for 
what  I  aim  at  in  my  words  concerns  the  peace,  the  secu- 
rity, the  honor  of  our  family.  Madame,  allow  me  first  to 
disburden  myself  of  something  that  has  been  committed 
to  me.  My  noble  and  pious  sister,  Madame  Louise,  has 
given  me  this  letter  for  your  majesty,  and  in  her  name  I 
ask  our  royal  niece  to  read  the  same  at  once  and  in  my 
presence." 

She  drew  from  the  great  reticule,  which  was  attached  to 
her  arm  by  its  silken  cords,  a  sealed  letter,  and  handed  it 
to  the  queen. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  raise  her  hand  to  receive 
it,  but  shook  her  head  as  if  in  refusal,  and  yet  with  so 
eager  a  motion  that  her  elaborate  coiffure  fairly  trembled. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,"  said  she,  earnestly,  "  but 
I  cannot  receive  this  letter  from  the  prioress  of  the  Car- 
melite convent  at  St.  Denis;  for  you  well  know  that  when 
Madame  Louise  sent  me  some  years  ago,  through  your 
highness,  a  letter  which  I  read,  that  I  never  again  will  re- 
ceive and  read  letters  from  the  prioress.  Have  the  good- 
ness, then,  to  take  this  back  to  the  sender." 

"  You  know,  madame,  that  this  is  an  affront  directed 
against  a  princess  of  France!"  was  the  emphatic  reply. 

"  I  know,  madame,  that  that  letter  which  I  then  received 


20  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

from  Madame  Louise  was  an  affront  directed  by  the  prin- 
cess against  the  Queen  of  France,  and  I  shall  protect  the 
majesty  of  my  station  from  a  similar  affront.  Unquestion- 
ably this  letter  is  similar  in  tone  to  that  one.  That  one 
contained  charges  which  went  so  far  as  .to  involve  open 
condemnation,  and  contained  proffers  of  counsel  which 
meant  little  less  than  calumny.*  And  what  would  this  be 
likely  to  contain  different,  which  your  highness  takes  the 
trouble  to  bring  to  me?" 

"Well,"  cried  Madame  Adelaide,  angrily,  "its  purport 
may  be  similar  to  that  of  the  former  letter;  for,  unfor- 
tunately, the  causes  are  the  same,  and  we  may  not  wonder 
if  the  effects  are  also  the  same." 

"  Ah !  one  can  easily  see  that  your  highness  knows  the 
contents  of  the  letter,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  smiling, 
"  and  you  will  therefore  certainly  pardon  me  for  not  read- 
ing it.  It  was  unquestionably  written  in  the  presence  of 
your  highness,  in  the  pious  cell  of  the  prioress.  She  gave 
over  for  a  while  her  prayers  for  the  repose  of  the  departed 
king,  in  order  to  busy  herself  a  little  with  worldly  things, 
and  to  listen  to  the  calumnies  which  Madame  Adelaide,  or 
the  Count  de  Provence,  or  the  Cardinal  de  Eohan,  or  some 
other  of  the  enemies  of  my  person,  have  sought  to  hurl 
against  the  Queen  of  France." 

"Calumnies!"  replied  Madame  Adelaide,  with  an  angry 
flash  in  her  eyes.  "  Would  to  God,  madame,  that  it  were 
calumnies  with  which  we  have  to  do,  and  that  all  these 
things  which  trouble  and  disturb  us  were  only  malicious 
calumnies,  and  not  sober  facts!" 

"  And  will  your  highness  not  have  the  goodness  to  com 
municate  these  facts  to  me?"  said  the  queen,  undisturbed, 
but  smiling,  and  so  only  increasing  the  anger  of  the  prin- 
cess. 

"  These  facts  are  of  so  varied  kinds  that  it  would  be  a 
difficult  thing  to  choose  out  any  separate  ones  among 
them,"  cried  she,  with  fiery  tone.  "  Every  day,  every  hour 
of  the  life  of  your  majesty,  brings  new  facts  to  light." 

"Oh!"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  "I  had  no  idea  that  your 
highness  had  such  tender  care  for  me." 

"  And  I  had  no  idea,  madame,  that  your  frivolity  went 

*  Gondrecourt,  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  59. 


MADAME    ADELAIDE.  21 

so  far  as  continually  to  wound  the  laws,  the  customs,  and 
the  hallowed  order  of  things.  You  do  it — you  do  it, 
scorning  every  thing  established  with  the  random  wanton- 
ness of  a  child  that  plays  with  fire,  and  does  not  know  that 
the  waves  will  flare  up  and  consume  it.  Madame,  I  have 
come  here  to  warn  you  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time." 

"God  be  thanked,  for  the  last  time!"  cried  the  queen, 
with  a  charming  glance  of  her  eyes. 

"  I  conjure  you,  queen,  for  your  own  sake,  for  your  hus- 
band's, for  your  children's,  change  your  course;  take  a 
new  direction ;  leave  the  path  of  danger  on  which  you  are 
hastening  to  irretrievable  destruction." 

The  countenance  of  the  queen,  before  so  pleasant  and 
animated,  now  darkened.  Her  smile  gave  way  to  a  deep 
earnestness;  she  raised  her  head  proudly  and  put  on  a 
royal  bearing. 

"Madame,"  said  she,  "up  to  this  time  I  have  been  in- 
clined to  meet  your  biting  philippics  with  the  quiet  indif- 
ference which  innocence  gives,  and  to  remain  mindful  of 
the  reverence  due  to  age,  and  not  to  forget  the  harsh  eyes 
with  which  the  aged  always  look  upon  the  deeds  of  youth. 
But  you  compel  me  to  take  the  matter  more  earnestly  to 
heart,  for  you  join  to  my  name  that  of  my  husband  and 
my  children,  and  so  you  appeal  to  my  heart  of  hearts. 
Now,  then,  tell  me,  madame,  what  you  have  to  bring 
against  me." 

"  Your  boundless  frivolity,  your  culpable  short-sighted- 
ness, your  foolish  pleasures,  your  extravagance,  your  love 
of  finery,  your  mixing  with  politics,  your  excessive  jovial- 
ness,  your  entertainments,  your — " 

Marie  Antoinette  interrupted  this  series  of  charges  with 
loud,  merry  laughter,  which  more  enraged  the  princess 
than  the  most  stinging  words  would  have  done. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "you  are  frivolous,  for  you  sup- 
pose the  life  of  a  queen  is  one  clear  summer's  day,  to  be 
devoted  to  nothing  but  singing  and  laughing.  You  are 
short-sighted,  for  you  do  not  see  that  the  flowers  of  this 
summer's  day  in  which  you  rejoice,  only  bloom  above  an 
abyss  into  which  you,  with  your  wanton  dancing,  are  about 
to  plunge.  You  indulge  in  foolish  pleasures,  instead  of, 
as  becomes  a  Queen  of  France,  passing  your  life  in  seclu- 


22  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

sion,  in  devout  meditation,  in  the  exercise  of  beneficence,  in 
pious  deeds.  You  are  a  spendthrift,  for  you  give  the  in- 
come of  France  to  your  favorites,  to  this  Polignac  family, 
which  it  has  been  reckoned  receives  alone  a  twentieth  part 
of  the  whole  income  of  the  state ;  to  these  gracious  lords 
and  ladies  of  your  so-called  'society,'  supporting  them  in 
their  frivolity,  allowing  them  to  make  golden  gain  out  of 
you.  You  are  a  lover  of  finery,  not  holding  it  beneath 
your  dignity  to  spend  whole  hours  with  a  poor  milliner; 
allowing  a  man  to  dress  your  hair,  and  afterward  to  go  into 
the  toilet  chambers,  of  the  Parisian  dames,  that  their  hair 
may  be  dressed  by  the  same  hands  which  have  arranged 
the  hair  of  a  queen,  and  to  imitate  the  coiffure  which  the 
Queen  of  France  wears.  And  what  kind  of  a  coiffure  is 
that  which,  invented  by  a  queen,  is  baptized  with  a  fantas- 
tic name,  and  carried  through  Paris,  France,  and  all 
Europe?" 

"But,"  said  Maire  Antoinette,  with  comical  pathos, 
"  these  coiffures  have,  some  of  them,  horrid  names.  We 
have,  for  example,  the  'hog's  bristles  coiffure,''  the  'flea- 
bite  coiffure,''  the  'dying  dog,'  the  'flame  of  love,'  'mod- 
esty's cap,'  a — " 

"A  queen's  levee,"  interrupted  the  princess;  "a  love's 
nest  of  Marie  Antoinette.  Yes,  we  have  come  to  that  pass 
that  the  fashions  are  named  after  the  queen,  and  all  ac- 
quire a  certain  frivolous  character,  so  that  all  the  men  and 
all  the  honorable  women  of  Paris  are  in  despair  because 
the  thoughts  of  their  daughters,  infected  with  the  millinery 
tastes  of  the  queen  and  the  court,  shun  all  noble  thoughts, 
and  only  busy  themselves  with  mere  affairs  of  taste.  I 
have  shown  you,  and  you  will  not  be  able  to  deny  it,  ma- 
dame,  that  this  decline  in  manners,  which  has  been  engen- 
dered by  this  love  of  finery,  proceeds  from  you,  and  from 
you  alone ;  that  not  only  your  love  of  finery  is  to  blame, 
but  also  your  coquetry,  your  joviality,  and  these  unheard-of 
indescribable  orgies  to  which  the  Queen  of  France  surren- 
ders herself,  and  to  which  she  even  allures  her  own  hus- 
band, the  King  of  France,  the  oldest  son  of  the  Church." 

"What  does  your  highness  mean?"  asked  the  queen. 
"  Of  what  entertainments  are  you  speaking?" 

"  I  am  speaking  of  the  entertainments  which  are  cele- 


MADAME   ADELAIDE.  23 

brated  in  Trianon,  to  the  perversion  of  all  usage  and  all 
good  manners.  Of  those  orgies  in  which  the  queen  trans- 
forms herself  into  a  shepherdess,  and  permits  the  ladies  of 
her  court,  who  ought  to  appear  before  her  with  bended 
knee  and  with  downcast  eyes,  to  clothe  themselves  like  her, 
and  to  put  on  the  same  bearing  as  the  queen's!  I  speak 
of  those  orgies  where  the  king,  enchanted  by  the  charms 
of  his  wife,  and  allured  by  her  coquetry,  so  far  forgets  his 
royal  rank  as  even  to  take  part  himself  in  this  stupid  frivol- 
ity, and  to  bear  a  share  in  this  trivial  masquerading.  And 
this  queen,  whose  loud  laughter  fills  the  groves  of  Trianon, 
and  who  sometimes  finds  her  pleasure  in  imitating  the  low- 
ing of  cows  or  the  bleating  of  goats — this  queen  will  after- 
ward put  on  the  bearing  of  a  statesman,  and  will,  with 
those  hands  which  have  just  got  through  arranging  an 
'allegorical  head-dress,'  dip  into  the  machinery  of  state,  in- 
terrupting the  arrangements  of  her  entertainments  to  busy 
herself  with  politics,  to  set  aside  old,  cherished  ministers, 
to  bring  her  friends  and  favorites  into  their  places,  and  to 
make  the  king  the  mere  executor  of  her  will." 

"  Madame,"  said  the  queen,  as  glowing  with  anger  and 
with  eyes  of  flame  she  rose  from  her  seat — "  madame,  this 
is  going  too  far,  this  oversteps  the  bounds  that  every  one, 
even  the  princesses  of  the  royal  house,  owe  to  their  sover- 
eign. I  have  allowed  you  to  subject  to  your  biting  criticism 
my  outer  life,  my  pleasures,  and  my  dress,  but  I  do  not 
allow  you  to  take  in  hand  my  inner  life — my  relations  to 
my  husband  and  my  personal  honor.  You  presume  to 
speak  of  my  favorites.  I  demand  of  you  to  name  them, 
and  if  you  can  show  that  there  is  one  man  to  whom  I  show 
any  other  favor  than  a  gracious  queen  may  show  to  a  ser- 
vant, a  subject  whom  she  can  honor  and  trust,  I  desire 
that  you  would  give  his  name  to  the  king,  and  that  a  close 
investigation  be  made  into  the  case.  I  have  friends;  yes, 
thank  Heaven !  I  have  friends  who  prize  me  highly,  and 
who  are  every  hour  prepared  to  give  their  life  for  their 
queen.  I  have  true  and  faithful  servants;  but  no  one  will 
appear  and  give  evidence  that  Marie  Antoinette  has  ever 
had  an  illicit  lover.  My  only  lover  has  been  the  king,  my 
husband,  and  I  hope  before  God  that  he  will  always  remain 
so,  so  long  as  I  live.  But  this  is  exactly  what  the  noble 


24  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

princesses  my  aunts,  what  the  Count  de  Provence,  and  the 
whole  party  of  the  old  court,  never  will  forgive  me  for.  I 
have  had  the  good  fortune  to  win  the  love  of  my  husband. 
The  king,  despite  all  calumnies  and  all  intrigues,  lowered 
his  glance  to  the  poor  young  woman  who  stood  solitary 
near  him,  and  whom  he  had  been  taught  to  prize  lightly 
and  to  despise,  and  then  he  found  that  she  was  not  so 
simple,  stupid,  and  ugly,  as  she  had  been  painted.  He  be- 
gan to  take  some  notice  of  her,  and  then,  God  be  thanked, 
he  overlooked  the  fact  that  she  was  of  Austrian  blood, 
and  that  the  policy  of  his  predecessor  had  urged  her  upon 
him :  his  heart  warmed  to  her  in  love,  and  Marie  Antoi- 
nette received  this  love  as  a  gracious  gift  of  God,  as  the 
happiness  of  her  life.  Yes,  madame,  I  may  say  it  with 
pride  and  joy,  the  king  loves  me,  he  trusts  me,  and  there- 
fore his  wife  stands  nearer  to  him  than  even  his  exalted 
aunts,  and  I  am  the  one  whom  he  most  trusts  and  whom 
he  selects  to  be  his  chief  adviser.  But  this  is  just  the 
offence  which  will  never  be  forgiven  me :  it  has  fallen  to 
my  lot  to  take  from  my  enemies  and  opponents  their  in- 
fluence over  my  husband.  The  time  has  gone  by  when 
Madame  Adelaide  could  gain  an  attentive  ear  when  she 
came  to  the  king,  and  in  her  passionate  rage  charged  me 
with  unheard-of  crimes,  which  had  no  basis  excepting  that 
in  some  little  matters  I  had  loosened  the  ancient  chains  of 
etiquette;  the  time  is  past  when  Madame  Louise  could 
presume  to  drive  me  with  her  flashing  anger  from  her  pious 
cell  and  make  me  kneel  in  the  dust ;  and  when  it  was  per- 
mitted to  the  Count  de  la  Morch  to  accuse  the  queen  before 
the  king  of  having  risen  in  time  to  behold  the  rising  of  the 
sun  at  Versailles,  in  company  with  her  whole  court.  The 
king  loves  me,  and  Madame  Adelaide  is  no  longer  the  po- 
litical counsellor  of  the  king;  the  ministers  will  no  longer 
be  appointed  according  to  her  dictate,  and  the  great  ques- 
tions of  the  cabinet  are  decided  without  appealing  to  her! 
I  know  that  this  is  a  new  offence  which  you  lay  to  my 
charge,  and  that  by  your  calumniations  and  suspicions  you 
make  me  suffer  the  penalty  for  it.  I  know  that  the  Count 
de  Provence  stoops  to  direct  epigrams  and  pamphlets  against 
his  sister-in-law,  his  sovereign,  and  through  the  agency  of 
his  creatures  to  scatter  them  through  Paris.  I  know  that 


MADAME    ADELAIDE.  25 

in  his  saloons  all  the  enemies  of  the  queen  are  welcome, 
and  that  charges  against  me  are  made  without  rebuke,  and 
that  there  the  weapons  are  forged  with  which  I  am  assailed. 
But  take  care  lest  some  day  these  weapons  be  turned  against 
you !  It  is  you  who  are  imperilling  the  kingdom,  and  un- 
dermining the  throne,  for  you  do  not  hesitate  setting  be- 
fore the  people  an  example  that  nothing  is  sacred  to  you ; 
that  the  dignity  of  the  throne  no  longer  has  an  existence, 
but  that  it  may  be  denied  with  vile  insinuations,  and  the 
most  poisonous  arrows  directed  against  those  who  wear  the 
crown  of  St.  Louis  on  their  head.  But  all  you,  the  aunts, 
the  brothers  of  the  king,  and  the  whole  swarm  of  their 
intimates  and  dependents,  you  are  all  undermining  the 
monarchy,  for  you  forget  that  the  foreigner,  the  Austrian, 
as  you  call  her — that  she  is  Queen  of  France,  your  sover- 
eign, your  lord,  and  that  you  are  nothing  better  than  her 
sabjects.  You  are  criminals,  you  are  high  traitors!" 

"  Madame,"  cried  the  Princess  Adelaide,  "  Madame,  what 
language  is  this  that — " 

"  It  is  the  language  of  a  woman  in  reply  to  a  calumniator, 
the  language  of  a  queen  to  a  rebellious  subject.  Madame, 
have  the  goodness  not  to  answer  me  again.  You  have 
come  into  the  palace  of  your  sovereign  to  accuse  her,  and 
she  has  answered  you  as  becomes  her  station.  Now  we 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other.  You  requested  a 
half  hour's  private  audience  with  me,  and  the  time  has 
gone.  Farewell,  madame;  my  carriage  stands  ready,  and 
I  go  to  Trianon.  I  shall,  however,  say  nothing  to  the 
king  respecting  the  new  attack  which  you  have  made  upon 
me,  and  I  promise  you  that  I  shall  forget  it  and  forgive  it." 

She  nodded  lightly,  turned  herself  around,  and,  with 
lofty  carriage  and  proud  self-possession ,  left  the  apartment. 

Princess  Adelaide  looked  after  her  with  an  expression  of 
the  deepest  hate,  and  entirely  forgetful  of  her  lofty  station, 
even  raised  her  hand  threateningly  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  through  which  the  noble  figure  of  the  queen  had  just 
vanished.  "  I  shall  not  forget  nor  forgive,"  muttered  she. 
"  I  shall  have  my  revenge  on  this  impudent  person  who 
dares  to  threaten  me  and  even  to  defy  me,  and  who  calls 
herself  my  sovereign.  This  Austrian,  a  sovereign  of  the 
princess  royal  of  France !  We  will  show  her  where  are  the 


26  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

limits  of  her  power,  and  where  are  the  limits  of  France ! 
She  shall  go  back  to  Austria;  we  want  her  not,  this  Aus- 
trian who  dares  to  defy  us." 

Proud  and  erect  though  the  bearing  was  with  which  the 
queen  left  Madame  Adelaide,  she  had  hardly  entered  her 
own  room  and  closed  the  door  which  separated  her  from 
her  enemy,  when  she  sank  groaning  upon  a  seat,  and  a 
flood  of  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Campan,  Campan!  what  have  I  been  compelled 
to  hear?"  cried  she,  bitterly.  "With  what  expressions 
have  they  ventured  to  address  the  Queen  of  France!" 

Madame  de  Campan,  the  first  lady-in-waiting  on  the 
queen,  who  had  just  then  entered  the  porcelain  room,  hast- 
ened to  her  mistress,  and,  sinking  upon  her  knees,  pressed 
the  fallen  hand  of  the  queen  to  her  lips. 

"Your  majesty  is  weeping!"  she  whispered  with  her 
mild,  sympathetic  voice.  "  Your  majesty  has  given  the 
princess  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  she  has  succeeded 
in  drawing  tears  from  the  Queen  of  France,  and  redden- 
ing her  beautiful  eyes." 

"  No,  I  will  not  give  her  this  pleasure,"  said  the  queen, 
quickly  raising  herself  up  and  drying  her  eyes.  "  I  will 
be  merry,  and  why  do  I  weep?  She  sought  to  make  me 
sick ;  she  sought  to  wound  me,  but  I  have  given  back  the 
sickness,  and  the  wounds  which  I  have  inflicted  upon  her 
will  not  so  soon  heal." 

"  Has  your  majesty  inflicted  anything  upon  the  princess?" 
cried  Madame  de  Campan,  in  agitation. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette,  with  triumphant 
joy.  "  I  have  scourged  her,  I  have  wounded  her,  for  I 
have  distinctly  intimated  to  her  that  I  am  Queen  of  France, 
and  she  my  subject.  I  have  told  her,  that  when  she  dares 
direct  her  calumnies  against  the  queen,  she  is  guilty  of 
high-treason." 

"  Oh !"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Campan,  "  the  proud 
princess  will  never  pardon  that.  Your  majesty  has  now 
become  her  irreconcilable  enemy,  and  she  will  leave  no 
stone  unturned  to  revenge  herself  upon  you." 

"She  may  attempt  to  revenge  herself  upon  me,"  cried 
the  queen,  whose  countenance  began  to  brighten  up  once 
more.  "  I  fear  neither  her  nor  her  whole  set.  All  their 


MADAME   ADELAIDE.  27 

arrows  will  fall  powerless  at  my  feet,  for  the  love  of  my 
husband  and  my  pure  conscience  form  the  protection 
which  secures  me.  And  what  can  these  people  accomplish 
against  me?  They  can  slander  me,  that  is  all.  But  their 
calumnies  will,  in  the  end,  prove  that  it  is  lies  they  tell, 
and  no  one  will  give  them  confidence  more." 

"  Ah !  your  majesty  does  not  know  the  wickedness  of  the 
world,"  sighed  Campan,  sadly.  "Your  majesty  believes 
that  the  good  are  not  cowardly,  and  that  the  bad  are  not 
reckless.  Your  majesty  does  not  know  that  the  bad  have 
it  in  their  power  to  corrupt  public  opinion ;  and  that  then 
the  good  have  not  the  courage  to  meet  this  corrupting  in- 
fluence. But  public  opinion  is  a  monster  that  brings  the 
charge,  passes  judgment,  pronounces  the  sentence,  and  in- 
flicts the  punishment  in  one  person.  Who  thinks  lightly 
of  it,  arrays  against  himself  an  enemy  stronger  than  a  whole 
army,  and  less  open  to  entreaty  than  death." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  queen,  raising  her  head  proudly,  "  I  do 
not  fear  this  enemy.  She  shall  not  dare  to  attack  me. 
She  shall  crouch  and  shrink  before  my  gaze  as  the  lion  does 
when  confronted  by  the  eye  of  a  virgin.  I  am  pure  and 
blameless.  I  pledged  my  troth  to  my  husband  before  he 
loved  me,  and  how  shall  I  now  break  it,  when  he  does  love 
me,  and  is  the  father  of  my  dear  children?  And  now, 
enough  of  these  disagreeable  things  that  want  to  cast  their 
vileness  upon  us !  And  the  sun  is  shining  so  splendidly, 
and  they  are  waiting  for  me  in  Trianon !  Come,  Campan, 
come;  the  queen  will  take  the  form  of  a  happy  wife." 

Marie  Antoinette  hastened  before  her  lady-in-waiting, 
hurried  into  her  toilet-chamber  in  advance  of  her  lady-in- 
waiting,  who  followed,  sighing  and  shaking  her  head,  and 
endeavored  with  her  own  hands  to  loosen  the  stiff  corset 
of  her  robe,  and  to  free  herself  from  the  immense  crinoline 
which  imprisoned  her  noble  form. 

"  Off  with  these  garments  of  state  and  royal  robes,"  said 
Marie  Antoinette,  gliding  out  of  the  stiff  apparel,  and 
standing  in  a  light,  white  undergarment,  with  bare  shoul- 
ders and  arms.  "  Give  me  a  white  percale  dress  and  a 
gauze  mantle  with  it." 

"  Will  your  majesty  appear  again  in  this  simple  cos- 
tume?" asked  Madame  de  Campan,  sighing. 


28  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  Certainly,  I  will,"  cried  she;  "  I  am  going  to  Trianon, 
to  my  much-loved  country-house.  You  must  know,  Cam- 
pan,  that  the  king  has  promised  to  spend  every  afternoon 
of  a  whole  week  with  me  at  Trianon,  and  that  there  we  are 
going  to  enjoy  life,  nature,  and  solitude.  So,  for  a  whole 
week,  the  king  will  only  be  king  in  the  forenoon,  and  in 
the  afternoon  a  respectable  miller  in  the  village  Trianon. 
Now,  is  not  that  a  merry  thought,  Campan?  And  do  you 
not  see  that  I  cannot  go  to  Trianon  in  any  other  than  a 
light  white  dress?" 

"  Yes,  your  majesty,  I  understand ;  but  I  was  only  think- 
ing that  the  tradespeople  of  Lyons  had  just  presented  a 
paper  to  your  majesty,  in  which  they  complain  of  the  de- 
cadence of  the  silk  manufacture,  explaining  it  on  the 
ground  that  your  majesty  has  a  preference  for  white  cloth- 
ing, and  stating  that  all  the  ladies  feel  obliged  to  follow  the 
example  of  their  queen,  and  lay  their  silk  robes  aside." 

"  And  do  you  know,  too,"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  "  that 
Madame  Adelaide  has  herself  supported  this  ridiculous 
paper  of  the  Lyonnese  merchants,  giving  out  that  I  wear 
white  percale  because  I  want  to  do  my  brother,  the  Em- 
peror Joseph,  a  service,  and  so  ordered  these  white  goods 
from  the  Netherlands?  Ah,  let  us  leave  these  follies  of 
the  wicked  and  the  stupid.  They  shall  not  prevent  my 
wearing  white  clothes  and  being  happy  in  Trianon.  Give 
me  a  white  dress  quickly,  Campan." 

"  Pardon,  your  majesty,  but  I  must  first  summon  the 
ladies  of  the  robing- room,"  answered  Madame  de  Campan, 
turning  to  the  door  of  the  sleeping- room. 

"  Oh,  why  all  this  parade?"  sighed  the  queen.  "  Can  I 
never  be  free  from  the  fetters  of  all  this  ceremony?  Could 
you  not  yourself,  Campan,  put  a  simple  dress  upon  me?" 

"  Your  majesty,  I  am  only  a  poor,  powerless  being,  and 
I  fear  enmities.  The  ladies  would  never  forgive  me  if  I 
should  encroach  upon  their  rights  and  separate  them  from 
the  adored  person  of  the  queen.  It  is  their  right,  it  is 
their  duty  to  draw  the  robe  upon  the  person  of  your 
majesty,  and  to  secure  your  shoes.  I  beg,  therefore,  your 
gracious  permission  to  allow  the  ladies  to  come  in." 

"Well,  do  it  then,"  sighed  the  queen.  "Let  me  bear 
the  fetters  here  in  Versailles  until  the  last  moment.  I 


MADAME    ADELAIDE.  29 

shall  have  my  compensation  in  Trianon.  Be  assured  I 
shall  have  my  compensation  there." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  queen  was  arrayed  in  her 
changed  attire,  and  came  out  from  the  toilet-chamber. 
The  stiff  crinoline  had  disappeared ;  the  whalebone  corset, 
with  the  long  projecting  point,  was  cast  aside;  and  the 
high  coiffure,  which  Leonard  had  so  elaborately  made  up  m 
the  morning,  was  no  more  to  be  seen.  A  white  robe, 
decorated  at  the  bottom  with  a  simple  volante,  fell  in  broad 
artistic  folds  over  her  noble  figure,  whose  full  proportions 
had  been  concealed  by  the  rigid  state  dress.  A  simple 
waist  encircled  her  bust,  and  was  held  together  by  a  blue 
cash,  which  hung  in  long  ends  at  her  left  side.  Broad 
cnffs,  held  together  with  simple,  narrow  lace,  fell  down  as 
far  as  the  wrist,  but  through  the  thin  material  could  be 
seen  the  fair  form  of  her  beautiful  arms;  and  the  white 
triangle  of  gauze  which  she  had  thrown  over  her  naked 
neck,  did  not  entirely  veil  the  graceful  lines  of  her  full 
shoulders  and  her  noble  bust.  Her  hair,  deprived  of  its 
unnatural  disfigurement,  and  almost  entirely  freed  from 
powder,  arched  itself  above  her  fine  forehead  in  a  light 
toupet,  and  fell  upon  her  shoulders  in  rich  brown  locks,  on 
which  only  a  mere  breath  of  powder  had  been  blown.  On 
her  arm  the  queen  carried  a  great,  round,  straw  hat,  se- 
cured by  blue  ribbons,  and  over  her  fair,  white  hands  she 
had  drawn  gloves  of  black  netting. 

Thus,  with  beaming  countenance,  with  blushing  cheeks, 
and  with  smiles  curling  around  her  full  red  lips ;  thus,  all 
innocence,  merriment,  and  cheerfulness,  Marie  Antoinette 
entered  the  sitting-room,  where  the  Duchess  de  Polignac 
was  waiting  for  her,  in  an  attire  precisely  like  that  of  the 
queen. 

The  latter  flew  to  the  duchess  with  the  quickness  of  a 
young  girl,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  sister,  and  drew  her 
arm  within  that  of  her  friend. 

"Come,  Julia,"  said  she,  "let  us  leave  the  world  and 
enter  paradise." 

"Ah,  I  am  afraid  of  paradise,"  cried  the  duchess,  with  a 
merry  smile.  "  I  have  a  horror  of  the  serpent." 

"  You  shall  find  no  serpents  there,  my  Julia,"  said  the 
queen,  drawing  the  arm  of  the  duchess  to  herself.  "  Lean 


30  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

upon  me,  my  friend,  and  be  persuaded  that  I  will  defend 
you  against  every  serpent,  and  every  low,  creeping  thing." 

"Oh,  I  fear  the  serpent  more  for  my  adored  queen  than 
for  myself.  What  is  there  in  me  to  harm?  But  your 
majesty  is  exposed  on  every  side  to  attack." 

"  Oh,  why,  Julia,"  sighed  the  queen — "  why  do  you  ad- 
dress me  with  the  stiff,  formal  title  of  majesty  when  we  are 
alone  together?  Why  do  you  not  forget  for  a  little  eti- 
quette when  there  is  nobody  by  to  hear  us?" 

"Your  majesty,"  laughed  the  duchess,  "we  are  in  Ver- 
sailles, and  the  walls  have  ears." 

"  It  is  true,"  cried  the  queen,  with  quickly-restored  mer- 
riment, "we  are  here  in  Versailles;  that  is  your  excul- 
pation. Come,  let  us  hasten  to  leave  this  proud,  royal 
palace,  and  get  away  to  the  society  of  beautiful  Nature, 
where  there  are  no  walls  to  hear  us,  but  only  God  and 
Nature.  Come,  Julia." 

She  drew  the  duchess  quickly  out  through  the  side  door, 
which  led  to  the  little  corridor,  and  thence  to  the  adjacent 
staircase,  and  over  the  small  court  to  one  of  the  minor 
gates  of  the  palace,  leading  to  the  park.  The  coupe  of 
the  queen  was  standing  before  this  door,  and  the  master 
of  the  stole  and  the  lackeys  were  awaiting  the  approach  of 
the  queen. 

Marie  Antoinette  sprang  like  a  gazelle  into  the  carriage, 
and  then  extended  her  hand  to  the  duchess  to  assist  her 
to  ascend. 

"Forward,  forward!"  cried  the  queen  to  tae  coachman, 
"  and  drive  with  all  haste,  as  if  the  horses  had  wings,  for 
I  long  to  fly.  Forward!  oh,  forward!" 


CHAPTEE    III. 

TRIANON. 

FLY,  ye  steeds,  fly!  Bear  the  Queen  of  France  away 
from  the  stiff,  proud  Versailles ;  from  the  palaces  of  kings, 
where  every  thing  breathes  of  exaltation,  greatness,  and 
unapproachableness ;  bear  her  to  little,  simple,  pretty  Tri- 
anon,— to  the  dream  of  paradise,  where  all  is  innocence, 


TRIANON.  31 

simplicity,  and  peace ;  where  the  queen  may  be  a  woman, 
and  a  happy  one,  too,  and  where  Marie  Antoinette  has  the 
right  to  banish  etiquette,  and  live  in  accordance  with  her 
inclinations,  wishes,  and  humors. 

Yes,  truly,  the  fiery  steeds  have  transformed  themselves 
into  birds ;  they  cut  the  air,  they  scarcely  touch  the  ground, 
and  hardly  can  the  driver  restrain  them  when  they  reach 
the  fence  which  separates  the  garden  of  Trianon  from 
Versailles. 

Light  as  a  gazelle,  happy  as  a  young  girl  that  knows 
nothing  of  the  cares  and  burdens  of  life,  Marie  Antoinette 
sprang  out  of  the  carriage  before  the  chamberlain  had  time 
to  open  the  gate  with  its  double  wings,  to  let  the  queen  pass 
in  as  a  queen  ought.  Laughing,  she  glided  through  the 
little  side  gate,  which  sufficed  for  the  more  unpretending 
visitor  of  Trianon,  and  took  the  arm  of  her  friend  the 
Duchess  de  Polignac,  in  order  to  turn  with  her  into  one  of 
the  side  alleys.  But,  before  doing  so,  she  turned  to  the 
chamberlain,  who,  standing  in  a  respectful  attitude,  was 
awaiting  the  commands  of  his  mistress. 

"  Weber,"  said  she  to  him,  in  the  pleasant  Austrian  dia- 
lect, the  language  of  her  early  home — "  Weber,  there  is  no 
need  for  you  to  follow  us.  The  day  is  yours.  You  are 
free,  as  I  am  too.  Meanwhile,  if  you  meet  his  majesty, 
tell  him  that  I  have  gone  to  the  small  palace,  and  that,  if 
it  pleases  his  majesty,  he  may  await  me  in  my  little  village 
at  the  mill. 

"And  now,  come,  my  Julia,"  said  she,  turning  to  the 
duchess,  and  drawing  her  forward  with  gentle  violence, 
"  now  let  us  be  merry  and  happy.  I  am  no  longer  a  queen, 
God  be  thanked !  I  am  neither  more  nor  less  than  anybody 
else.  That  is  the  reason  I  was  so  well  pleased  to  come 
through  the  small  door  just  now.  Through  a  narrow  gate 
alone  we  can  enter  paradise,  and  I  am  entering  paradise 
now.  Oh,  do  you  not  see,  my  friend,  that  the  trees,  the 
flowers,  the  bushes,  every  thing  here  is  free  from  the  dust 
of  earth ;  that  even  the  heaven  has  another  color,  and  looks 
down  upon  me  brilliant  and  blue,  like  the  eye  of  God?" 

"It  is  just,"  answered  the  Duchess  de  Polignac,  "be- 
cause you  are  seeing  every  thing  with  other  eyes,  your 
majesty." 


32  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"Your  majesty!"  cried  Marie  Antoinette.  "You  love 
me  no  longer ;  your  heart  is  estranged  from  me,  since  you 
address  me  with  this  cold  title.  In  Versailles,  you  had  a 
valid  plea ;  but  here,  Julia,  what  can  you  offer  in  justifica- 
tion? The  flowers  are  not  listeners,  the  bushes  have  not 
ears,  like  the  walls  of  Versailles,  to  spy  out  our  privacy." 

"  I  say  nothing  for  my  exculpation,"  answered  the  duch- 
ess, throwing  her  arm  with  a  playful  movement  around 
the  neck  of  the  queen,  and  imprinting  a  kiss  upon  the  lofty 
brow  of  Marie  Antoinette.  "  I  only  ask  your  pardon,  and 
promise  that  I  will  be  obedient  and  not  disturb  my  friend's 
dream  of  paradise  all  day  long  by  an  ill-timed  word.  Now 
will  you  forgive  me,  Marie?" 

"With  all  my  soul,  Julia,"  answered  the  queen,  nodding 
to  her  in  a  friendly  way.  "  And  now,  Julia,  as  we  have  a 
happy  vacation  day  before  us,  we  will  enjoy  it  like  two 
young  girls  who  are  celebrating  the  birthday  of  their  grand- 
mother after  escaping  from  a  boarding-school.  Let  us  see 
which  of  us  is  the  swiftest  of  foot.  We  will  make  a  wager 
on  it.  See,  there  gleams  our  little  house  out  from  the 
shrubbery;  let  us  see  which  of  us  gets  there  first." 

"Without  stopping  once  in  the  run?"  asked  the  duchess, 
amazed. 

"  I  make  no  conditions ;  I  only  say,  let  us  see  who  gets 
there  first.  If  you  win,  Julia,  I  will  give  you  the  privilege 
of  nominating  a  man  to  have  the  first  place  in  my  Swiss 
guards,  and  you  may  select  the  protege  in  whose  behalf  you 
were  pleading  yesterday.  Come,  let  us  run.  One! — " 

"No,  Marie,"  interrupted  the  duchess.  "Supposing 
that  you  are  the  first,  what  shall  I  give  you?"  ' 

"  A  kiss — a  hearty  kiss — Julia.  Now,  forward !  One, 
two,  three!" 

And,  speaking  these  words  in  merry  accents,  Marie  An- 
toinette sprang  forward  along  the  narrow  walk.  The  round 
straw  hat  which  covered  her  head  was  tossed  up  on  both 
sides;  the  blue  ribbons  fluttered  in  the  wind;  the  white 
dress  puffed  up;  and  the  grand-chamberlain  of  the  queen 
and  Madame  Adelaide  would  have  been  horrified  if  they 
could  have  seen  the  queen  flying  along  like  a  girl  escaped 
from  the  boarding-school. 

J3ut  she,  she  never  thought  of  there  being  any  thing  im- 


TRIANON.  33 

proper  in  the  run;  she  looked  forward  to  the  goal  with 
laughing  glances,  as  the  white  house  emerged  more  and 
more  from  the  verdure  by  which  it  was  surrounded,  and 
then  sideways  at  her  friend,  who  had  not  been  able  to  gain 
a  single  step  upon  her. 

"Forward,  forward!"  shouted  the  queen;  "I  will  and  I 
must  win,  for  the  prize  is  a  kiss  from  my  Julia."  And 
with  renewed  speed  the  queen  dashed  along.  The  lane 
opened  and  terminated  in  a  square  in  front  of  the  palace. 
The  queen  stopped  in  her  course,  and  turned  round  to  see 
her  friend,  who  had  been  left  far  behind  her. 

As  soon  as  the  duchess  saw  it  she  tried  to  quicken  her 
steps,  and  began  to  run  again,  but  Marie  Antoinette  mo- 
tioned with  her  hand,  and  went  rapidly  back  to  meet  her. 

"You  shall  not  make  any  more  effort,  Julia,"  said  she. 
"  I  have  won,  and  you  cannot  bring  my  victory  into 
question." 

"And  I  do  not  wish  to,"  answered  the  duchess,  with  a 
merry  look  of  defiance  on  her  gentle  features.  "  I  really 
did  not  wish  to  win,  for  it  would  have  seemed  as  if  I  had 
to  win  what  I  want  on  the  turn  of  a  merry  game.  You 
have  done  wrong,  Marie  Antoinette.  You  want  me  to  for- 
get here  in  Trianon  that  you  are  the  Queen  of  France. 
But  you  yourself  do  not  forget  it.  Only  the  queen  can 
propose  such  a  prize  as  you  have  set,  and  only  the  queen 
can  ask  so  insignificant  a  boon  on  the  other  side.  You 
have  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  win,  for  you  know  well 
that  I  am  not  selfish." 

"  I  know  it,  and  that  is  just  the  reason  why  I  love  you 
so  dearly,  Julia.  I  have  done  wrong,"  she  went  on  to  say 
with  her  gentle,  sweet  voice.  "  I  see  it,  and  I  beg  your 
forgiveness.  Give  me  now  as  a  proof  that  you  do  forgive 
me — give  me  the  prize  which  I  have  won — a  kiss,  Julia,  a 
kiss." 

"Not  here,"  answered  the  duchess.  "0,  no,  not  here, 
Marie.  Do  not  you  see  that  the  doors  of  the  saloons  are 
open,  and  that  your  company  are  all  assembled.  They 
would  all  envy  me ;  they  would  all  be  jealous  if  they  were 
to  see  the  preference  which  you  show  for  me." 

"Let  them  be  jealous,  let  them  envy  you,"  cried  the 
queen ;  "  the  whole  world  shall  know  that  Julia  de  Polignac 


34  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

is  my  best-loved  friend,  that  next  to  husband  and  children, 
I  love  no  one  so  well  as  her." 

With  gentle  violence  the  queen  threw  both  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  the  duchess,  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"Did  you  notice,"  said  the  Baron  de  Besenval  to  Lord 
Adhemar,  with  whom  he  was  playing  a  game  of  backgam- 
mon in  the  saloon,  "  did  you  notice  the  tableau  that  the 
queen  is  presenting,  taking  for  her  theme  a  group  repre- 
senting Friendship?" 

"  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  reproduce  this  wonderful 
group  in  marble,"  answered  Lord  Adhemar,  laughing.  "  It 
would  be  a  companion-piece  to  Orestes  and  Pylades." 

"But  which,"  asked  the  Duchess  de  Guemene,  looking 
up  from  her  embroidery,  "  which  would  be  the  companion 
of  Orestes,  pursued  of  Furies,  surrounded  by  serpents?" 

"That  is  the  queen,"  answered  the  Count  de  Vaudreuil, 
who  was  sitting  at  the  piano  and  practising  a  new  piece  of 
music.  "The  queen  is  the  womanly  Orestes:  the  Furies 
are  the  three  royal  aunts;  and  the  serpents — pardon  me, 
ladies — are,  with  the  exception  of  yourselves,  most  all  the 
ladies  of  Paris." 

"You  are  malicious,  count,"  cried  Madame  de  Morsan, 
"  and  were  we  by  any  chance  not  here,  you  would  reckon  us 
among  the  serpents." 

"  If  I  should  do  so,"  said  Count  Vaudreuil,  laughing,  "  I 
should  only  wish  to  take  the  apple  from  you,  in  order  to  be 
driven  out  of  paradise  with  you.  But  still!  the  queen  is 
coming." 

Yes,  just  then  the  queen  entered  the  apartment.  Her 
•cheeks  were  glowing  red  by  reason  of  her  run,  her  bosom 
heaved  violently  with  her  hurried,  agitated  breathing. 
Her  hat  had  fallen  upon  one  side,  and  the  dark  blond  hair 
was  thrown  about  in  wild  confusion. 

It  was  not  the  queen  who  entered  the  saloon,  it  was  only 
Marie  Antoinette,  the  simple,  young  woman,  greeting  her 
friends  with  brilliant  glances  and  lively  nods.  It  had  been 
made  a  rule  with  her,  that  when  she  entered,  no  one  should 
rise,  nor  leave  the  embroidery,  or  piano-playing,  or  any 
other  occupation. 

The  women  remained  at  their  work,  Lords  Besenval  and 
Adhemar  went  on  playing  their  game  of  backgammon,  and 


TRIANON.  35 

only  the  Count  de  Vaudreuil  rose  from  his  place  at  the  ap- 
proach of  the  queen. 

"  What  have  you  been  playing,  count?"  asked  Marie 
Antoinette. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  if  I  leave  your  question  unanswered," 
replied  the  count,  with  a  gentle  inclination  of  the  head. 
"  Your  majesty  has  such  a  fine  ear,  that  you  must  doubt- 
less recognize  the  composer  in  the  music.  It  is  an  entirely 
new  composition,  and  I  have  taken  the  license  of  arranging 
it  for  four  hands.  If  your  majesty  would  perhaps  be 
inclined — " 

"  Come,"  interrupted  the  queen,  "let  us  try  it  at  once." 

Quickly,  and  with  feverish  impatience,  she  drew  her 
black  netted  gloves  from  her  delicate  white  hands,  and  at 
once  took  her  place  next  to  the  count,  on  the  seat  already 
prepared  for  her. 

"  Will  not  the  music  be  too  difficult  for  me  to  play?" 
asked  she,  timidly. 

"  Nothing  is  too  difficult  for  the  Queen  of  France." 

"  But  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  too  difficult  for  the 
dilettante,  Marie  Antoinette,"  sighed  the  queen.  "Mean- 
while, we  will  begin  and  try  it." 

And  with  great  facility  and  lightness  of  touch,  the  queen 
began  to  play  the  base  of  the  piece  which  had  been  ar- 
ranged by  the  Count  de  Vaudreuil  for  four  hands.  But 
the  longer  she  played,  the  more  the  laughter  and  the  un- 
restrained gayety  disappeared  from  the  features  of  the 
queen.  Her  noble  countenance  assumed  an  expression  of 
deep  earnestness,  her  eye  kindled  with  feeling,  and  the 
cheeks  which  before  had  become  purple-red  with  the  exer- 
cise of  playing,  now  paled  with  deep  inward  emotion. 

All  at  once,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  grand  and  impas- 
sioned strains,  Marie  Antoinette  stopped,  and,  under  the 
strength  of  her  feeling,  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Only  Gluck  can  have  written  this!"  cried  she.  "This 
is  the  music,  the  divine  music  of  my  exalted  master,  my 
great  teacher,  Chevalier  Gluck." 

"  You  are  right;  your  majesty  is  a  great  musician, "  cried 
Lord  Vaudreuil,  in  amazement,  "  the  ideal  pupil  of  the 
genial  maestro.  Yes,  this  music  is  Gluck 's.  It  is  the 
overture  to  his  new  opera  of  'Alcestes,'  which  he  sent  me 


36  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

from  Venice  to  submit  to  your  majesty.  These  tones  shall 
speak  for  the  master,  and  entreat  for  him  the  protection  of 
the  queen." 

"  You  have  not  addressed  the  queen,  but  my  own  heart," 
said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  gentle,  deeply-moved  voice. 
"  It  was  a  greeting  from  my  home,  a  greeting  from  my 
teacher,  who  is  at  the  same  time  the  greatest  composer  of 
Europe.  Oh,  I  am  proud  of  calling  myself  his  pupil.  But 
Gluck  needs  no  protection ;  it  is  much  more  we  who  need 
the  protection  which  he  affords  us  in  giving  us  the  works 
of  his  genius.  I  thank  you,  count,"  continued  Marie  An- 
toinette, turning  to  Vaudreuil  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
"  This  is  a  great  pleasure  which  you  have  prepared  for  me. 
But  knowing,  as  I  now  do,  that  this  is  Gluck's  music,  I  do 
not  dare  to  play  another  note;  for,  to  injure  a  note  of  his 
writing,  seems  to  me  like  treason  against  the  crown.  I 
will  practise  this  piece,  and  then  some  day  we  will  play  it 
to  the  whole  court.  And  now,  my  honored  guests,  if  it 
pleases  you,  we  go  to  meet  the  king.  Gentlemen,  let  each 
one  choose  his  lady,  for  we  do  not  want  to  go  in  state  pro- 
cession, but  by  different  paths." 

All  the  gentlemen  present  rushed  toward  the  queen, 
each  desirous  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  her. 
Marie  Antoinette  thanked  them  all  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  took  the  arm  of  the  eldest  gentleman  there,  the  Baron 
de  Besenval. 

"Come,  baron,"  said  she,  "I  know  a  new  path,  which 
none  of  these  gentry  have  learned,  and  I  am  sure  that  we 
shall  be  the  first  to  reach  the  place  where  the  king  is." 

Besting  on  the  arm  of  the  baron,  she  left  the  saloon,  and 
passed  out  of  the  door  opposite,  upon  the  little  terrace  lead- 
ing to  the  well-shaded  park. 

"  We  will  go  through  the  English  garden.  I  have  had 
them  open  a  path  through  the  thicket,  which  will  lead  us 
directly  to  our  goal;  while  the  others  will  all  have  to  go 
through  the  Italian  garden,  and  so  make  a  circuit.  But 
look,  my  lord,  somebody  is  coming  there — who  is  it?" 

And  the  queen  pointed  to  the  tall,  slim  figure  of  a  man 
who  was  just  then  striding  along  the  terrace. 

"Madame,"  answered  the  baron,  "  it  is  the  Duke  de 
Fronac." 


TRIANON.  37 

"Alas!"  murmured  Marie  Antoinette,  "he  is  coming  to 
lay  new  burdens  upon  us,  and  to  put  us  in  the  way  of  meet- 
ing more  disagreeable  things." 

"  Would  it  be  your  wish  that  I  should  dismiss  him?  Do 
you  give  me  power  to  tell  him  that  you  extend  no  audience 
to  him  here?" 

"Oh!  do  not  do  so,"  sighed  Marie  Antoinette.  "He, 
too,  is  one  of  my  enemies,  and  we  must  proceed  much 
more  tenderly  with  our  dear  enemies  than  with  our  friends." 

Just  then  the  Duke  de  Fronac  ascended  the  last  terrace, 
and  approached  the  queen  with  repeated  bows,  which  she 
reciprocated  with  an  earnest  look  and  a  gentle  inclination 
of  the  head. 

"  Well,  duke,  is  it  I  with  whom  the  chief  manager  of  the 
royal  theatres  wishes  to  speak?" 

"Madame,"  answered  the  duke,  "I  am  come  to  beg  an 
audience  of  your  majesty." 

"  You  have  it ;  and  it  is,  as  you  see,  a  very  imposing 
audience,  for  we  stand  in  the  throne-room  of  God,  and  the 
canopy  of  Heaven  arches  over  us.  Now  say,  duke,  what 
brings  you  to  me?" 

"  Your  majesty,  I  am  come  to  file  an  accusation!" 

"And  of  course  against  me?"  asked  the  queen,  with  a 
haughty  smile. 

The  duke  pretended  not  to  hear  the  question,  and  went 
on: 

"  I  am  come  to  bring  a  charge  and  to  claim  my  rights. 
His  majesty  has  had  the  grace  to  appoint  me  manager-in- 
chief  of  all  the  royal  theatres,  and  to  give  me  their  supreme 
control." 

"Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with  me?"  asked  the  queen 
in  her  coldest  way.  "  You  have  then  your  duties  assigned 
you,  to  be  rightfully  fulfilled,  and  to  keep  your  theatres  in 
order,  as  if  they  were  troops  under  your  care." 

"  But,  your  majesty,  there  is  a  theatre  which  seeks  to 
free  itself  from  my  direction.  And  by  virtue  of  my  office 
and  my  trust  I  must  stringently  urge  you  that  this  new 
theatre  royal  be  delivered  into  my  charge." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  queen,  coolly.  "  Of 
what  new  theatre  are  you  speaking,  and  where  is  it?" 

"  Your  majesty,  it  is  here  in  Trianon.     Here  operettas, 


38  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

comedies,  and  vaudevilles  are  played.  The  stage  is  fur- 
nished as  all  stages  are;  it  is  a  permanent  stage,  and  I  can 
therefore  ask  that  it  be  given  over  into  my  charge,  for,  I 
repeat  it  again,  th eking  has  appointed  me  director  of  all 
the  collective  theatres  royal." 

"But,  duke,"  answered  the  queen  with  a  somewhat  more 
pliant  tone,  "  you  forget  one  thing,  and  that  is,  that  the 
theatre  in  Trianon  does  not  belong  to  the  theatres  of  his 
majesty.  It  is  my  stage,  and  Trianon  is  my  realm.  Have 
you  not  read  on  the  placards,  which  are  at  the  entrance  of 
Trianon,  that  it  is  the  queen  who  gives  laws  here?  Do  you 
not  know  that  the  king  has  given  me  this  bit  of  ground 
that  I  may  enjoy  my  freedom  here,  and  have  a  place  where 
the  Queen  of  France  may  have  a  will  of  her  own?" 

"Your  majesty,"  answered  the  duke  with  an  expression 
of  the  profoundest  deference,  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did 
not  suppose  that  there  was  a  place  in  France  where  the 
king  is  not  the  lord  paramount,  and  where  his  commands 
are  not  imperative." 

"  You  see,  then,  that  you  are  mistaken.  Here  in  Tri- 
anon I  am  king,  and  my  commands  are  binding." 

"  That  does  not  prevent,  your  majesty,  the  commands  of 
the  king  having  equal  force,"  replied  the  duke,  with  vehe- 
mence. "  And  even  if  the  Queen  of  France  disowns  these 
laws,  yet  others  do  not  dare  take  the  risk  of  following  the 
example  of  the  queen.  For  they  remain,  wherever  they 
are,  the  subjects  of  the  king.  So  even  here  in  Trianon  I 
am  still  the  obedient  subject  of  his  majesty,  and  his  com- 
mands and  my  duties  are  bound  to  be  respected  by  me." 

"  My  lord  duke,"  cried  the  queen  with  fresh  impatience, 
"  you  are  free  never  to  come  to  Trianon.  I  give  you  my 
full  permission  to  that  end,  and  thus  you  will  be  relieved 
from  the  possibility  of  ever  coming  into  collision  with  your 
ever-delicate  conscience  and  the  commands  of  the  king." 

"But,  your  majesty,  there  is  a  theatre  in  Trianon!" 

"Not  this  indefinite  phrase,  duke;  there  is  a  theatre  in 
Trianon,  but  I  the  queen,  the  princess  of  the  royal  family, 
and  the  guests  I  invite,  support  a  theatre  in  Trianon. 
Let  me  say  this  once  for  all:  you  cannot  have  the  direc- 
tion where  we  are  the  actors.  Besides,  I  have  had  occasion 
several  times  to  give  you  my  views  respecting  Trianon.  I 


TRIANON.  39 

have  no  court  here.  I  live  here  as  a  private  person.  I 
am  here  but  a  land-owner,  and  the  pleasures  and  enjoy- 
ments which  I  provide  here  for  myself  and  my  friends 
shall  never  be  supervised  by  any  one  but  myself  alone."  * 

"Your  majesty,"  said  the  duke,  with  a  cold  smile,  "it 
is  no  single  person  that  supervises  you ;  it  is  public  opin- 
ion, and  I  think  that  this  will  speak  on  my  side." 

The  duke  bowed,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  sign  from 
the  queen  to  withdraw,  he  turned  around  and  began  to 
descend  the  terrace. 

"He  is  a  shameless  man!"  muttered  the  queen,  with 
pale  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  as  she  followed  him  with  her 
looks. 

"He  is  ambitious,"  whispered  Besenval;  "he  implores 
your  majesty  in  this  way,  and  risks  his  life  and  his  office, 
in  the  hope  of  being  received  into  the  court  society." 

"No,  no,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette,  eagerly;  "there 
is  nothing  in  me  that  attracts  him.  The  king's  aunts  have 
set  him  against  me,  and  this  is  a  new  way  which  their  ten- 
der care  has  conjured  up  to  irritate  me,  and  make  me  sick. 
Yet  let  us  leave  this,  baron.  Let  us  forget  this  folly,  and 
only  remember  that  we  are  in  Trianon.  See,  we  are  now 
entering  my  dear  English  garden.  Oh,  look  around  you, 
baron,  and  then  tell  me  is  it  not  beautiful  here,  and  have 
I  not  reason  to  be  proud  of  what  I  have  called  here  into 
being?" 

While  thus  speaking,  the  queen  advanced  with  eager, 
flying  steps  to  the  exquisite  beds  of  flowers  which  beauti- 
fully variegated  the  surface  of  the  English  garden. 

It  was  in  very  truth  the  creation  of  the  queen,  this  Eng- 
lish garden,  and  it  formed  a  .striking  contrast  to  the  sol- 
emn, stately  hedges,  the  straight  alleys,  the  regular  flower- 
beds, the  carefully  walled  pools  and  brooks,  which  were 
habitual  in  the  gardens  of  Versailles  and  Trianon.  In  the 
English-garden  every  thing  was  cosy  and  natural.  The 
waters  foamed  here,  and  there  they  gathered  themselves 
together  and  stood  still ;  here  and  there  were  plants  which 
grew  just  where  the  wind  had  scattered  the  seed.  Hun- 
dreds of  the  finest  trees — willows,  American  oaks,  acacias, 

*The  very  words  of  the  queen.— See  Goncourt,  "Histoirede  Marie  Antoi- 
nette," p.  106. 


40  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

firs — threw  their  shade  abroad,  and  wrought  a  rich  diver- 
sity in  the  colors  of  the  foliage.  The  soil  here  rose  into 
gentle  hillocks,  and  there  sank  in  depressions  and  natural 
gorges.  All  things  seemed  without  order  or  system,  and 
where  art  had  done  its  work,  there  seemed  to  be  the  mere 
hand  of  free,  unfettered  Nature. 

The  farther  the  queen  advanced  with  her  companion  into 
the  garden,  the  more  glowing  became  her  countenance, 
and  the  more  her  eyes  beamed  with  their  accustomed  fire. 

"Is  it  not  beautiful  here?"  asked  she,  of  the  baron,  who 
was  walking  silently  by  her  side. 

"It  is  beautiful  wherever  your  majesty  is,"  answered  he, 
with  an  almost  too  tender  tone.  But  the  queen  did  not 
notice  it.  Her  heart  was  filled  with  an  artless  joy ;  she  lis- 
tened with  suspended  breath  to  the  trilling  song  of  the 
birds,  warbling  their  glad  hymns  of  praise  out  from  the 
thickets  of  verdure.  How  could  she  have  any  thought  of 
the  idle  suggestions  of  the  voice  of  the  baron,  who  had  been 
chosen  as  her  companion  because  of  his  forty-five  years, 
and  of  his  hair  being  tinged  with  gray? 

"It  seems  to  me,  baron,"  she  said,  with  a  charming 
laugh,  while  looking  at  a  bird  which,  its  song  just  ended, 
soared  from  the  bushes  to  the  heavens — "  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  Nature  wanted  to  send  me  a  greeting,  and  deputed  this 
bird  to  bring  it  to  me.  Ah,"  she  went  on  to  say,  with  quickly 
clouded  brow,  "  it  is  really  needful  that  I  should  at  times 
hear  the  friendly  notes  and  the  sweet  melodies  of  such  a 
genuine  welcome.  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal  to-day, 
baron,  and  the  welcome  of  this  bird  of  Trianon  was  the  balm 
of  many  a  wound  that  I  have  received  since  yesterday." 

"  Your  majesty  was  in  Paris?"  asked  Besenval,  hesitat- 
ingly, and  with  a  searching  glance  of  his  cunning,  dark 
eyes,  directed  to  the  sad  countenance  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

"I  was  in  Paris,"  answered  she,  with  a  flush  of  joy; 
"  and  the  good  Parisians  welcomed  the  wife  of  the  king 
and  the  mother  of  the  children  of  France  with  a  storm  of 
enthusiasm." 

"No,  madame,"  replied  the  baron,  reddening,  "they 
welcomed  with  a  storm  of  enthusiasm  the  most  beautiful 
lady  of  France,  the  adored  queen,  the  mother  oi  all  poor 
and  suffering  ones." 


TRIANON.  41 

"And  yet  there  was  a  dissonant  note  which  mingled 
with  all  these  jubilee  tones,"  said  the  queen,  thoughtfully. 
"While  all  were  shouting,  there  came  one  voice  which 
sounded  to  my  ear  like  the  song  of  the  bird  of  misfortune. 
Believe  me,  Besenval,  every  thing  is  not  as  it  ought  to  be. 
There  is  something  in  the  air  which  fills  me  with  anxiety 
and  fear.  I  cannot  drive  it  away ;  I  feel  that  the  sword  of 
Damocles  is  hanging  over  my  head,  and  that  my  hands  are 
too  weak  to  remove  it." 

"  A  woe  to  the  traitors  who  have  dared  to  raise  the  sword 
of  Damocles  over  the  head  of  the  queen!"  cried  the  baron, 
furiously. 

"  Woe  to  them,  but  woe  to  me  too!"  replied  the  queen, 
with  gentle  sadness.  "I  have  this  morning  had  a  stormy 
interview  with  Madame  Adelaide.  It  appears  that  my 
enemies  have  concocted  a  new  way  of  attacking  me,  and 
Madame  Adelaide  was  the  herald  to  announce  the  begin- 
ning of  the  tournament." 

"  Did  she  venture  to  bring  any  accusations  against  your 
majesty?"  asked  Besenval.  The  queen  replying  in  the 
affirmative  with  a  nod,  he  went  on.  "  But  what  can  they 
say?  Whence  do  they  draw  the  poisoned  arrows  to  wound 
the  noblest  and  truest  of  hearts?" 

"  They  draw  them  from  their  jealousy,  from  their  hatred 
against  the  house  of  Austria,  from  the  rage  with  which 
they  look  upon  the  manner  in  which  the  king  has  bestowed 
his  love.  'What  can  they  say?'  They  make  out  of  little 
things  monstrous  crimes.  They  let  a  pebble  grow  into  a 
great  rock,  with  which  they  strive  to  smite  me  down.  Oh, 
my  friend,  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal  to-day,  and,  in 
order  to  tell  you  this,  I  chose  you  as  my  companion.  I 
dare  not  complain  before  the  king,"  Marie  Antoinette  went 
on,  while  two  tears  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  "for  I 
will  not  be  the  means  of  opening  a  breach  in  the  family, 
and  the  king  would  cause  them  to  feel  his  wrath  who  have 
drawn  tears  from  the  eyes  of  his  wife.  But  you  are  my 
friend,  Besenval,  and  I  confide  in  your  friendship  and  in 
your  honor.  Now,  tell  me,  you  who  know  the  world,  and 
who  are  my  senior  in  experience  of  life,  tell  me  whether  I 
do  wrong  to  live  as  I  do.  Are  the  king's  aunts  right  in 
charging  it  upon  me  as  a  crime,  that  I  take  part  in  the 


42  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

simple  joys  of  life,  that  I  take  delight  in  my  youth  and  am 
happy?  Is  the  Count  de  Provence  right  in  charging  me, 
as  with  a  crime,  that  I  am  the  chief  counsellor  of  the  king, 
and  that  I  venture  to  give  him  my  views  regarding  politi- 
cal matters?  Am  I  really  condemned  to  stand  at  an  un- 
approachable distance  from  the  people  and  the  court,  like 
a  beautiful  statue?  Is  it  denied  to  me  to  have  feeling,  to 
love  and  to  hate,  like  everybody  else?  Is  the  Queen  of 
France  nothing  but  the  sacrificial  lamb  which  the  dumb 
idol  etiquette  carries  in  its  leaden  arms,  and  crushes  by 
slowly  pressing  it  to  itself?  Tell  me,  Besenval;  speak  to 
me  like  an  honorable  and  upright  man,  and  remember  that 
God  is  above  us  and  hears  our  words!" 

"May  God  be  my  witness,"  said  Besenval,  solemnly. 
"  Nothing  lies  nearer  my  heart  than  that  your  majesty  hear 
me.  For  my  life,  my  happiness,  and  my  misery,  all  lie 
wrapped  up  in  the  heart  of  your  majesty.  No,  I  answer — 
no;  the  aunts  of  the  king,  the  old  princesses,  look  with 
the  basilisk  eye  of  envy  from  a  false  point.  They  have 
lived  at  the  court  of  their  father ;  they  have  seen  Vice  put 
on  the  trappings  of  Virtue ;  they  have  seen  Shamelessness 
array  itself  in  the  garments  of  Innocence,  and  they  no 
longer  retain  their  faith  in  Virtue  or  Innocence.  The 
purity  of  the  queen  appears  to  them  to  be  a  studied  co- 
quetry, her  unconstrained  cheerfulness  to  be  culpable 
frivolity.  No,  the  Count  de  Provence  is  not  right  in 
bringing  the  charge  against  the  king  that  it  is  wrong  in 
him  to  love  his  wife  with  the  intensity  and  self-surrender 
with  which  a  citizen  loves  the  wife  whom  he  has  himself 
selected.  He  is  not  right  in  alleging  it  as  an  accusation 
against  you,  that  you  are  the  counsellor  of  the  king,  and 
that  you  seek  to  control  political  action.  Your  whole 
offence  lies  in  the  fact  that  your  political  views  are  different 
from  his,  and  that,  through  the  influence  which  you  have 
gained  over  the  heart  of  the  king,  his  aunts  are  driven  into 
the  background.  Your  majesty  is  an  Austrian,  a  friend  of 
the  Duke  de  Choiseul.  That  is  your  whole  offence.  Now 
you  would  not  be  less  blameworthy  in  the  eyes  of  these 
enemies  were  you  to  live  in  exact  conformity  with  the  eti- 
quette-books of  the  Queen  of  France,  covered  with  the  dust 
of  a  hundred  years.  Your  majesty  would  therefore  do 


TRIANON.  43 

yourself  and  the  whole  court  an  injury  were  you  to  allow 
your  youth,  your  beauty,  and  your  innocence,  to  be  sub- 
jected to  these  old  laws.  It  were  folly  to  condemn  your- 
self to  ennui  and  solitude.  Does  not  the  Queen  of  France 
enjoy  a  right  which  the  meanest  of  her  subjects  possesses, 
of  collecting  her  own  chosen  friends  around  her  and  taking 
her  pleasure  with  them.  We  live,  I  know,  in  an  age  of 
reckless  acts;  but  may  there  not  be  some  recklessness  in 
dealing  with  the  follies  of  etiquette?  They  bring  it  as  a 
charge  against  your  majesty  that  you  adjure  the  great  court 
circles,  and  the  stiff  set  with  which  the  royal  family  of 
France  used  to  martyr  itself.  They  say  that  by  giving  up 
ceremony  you  are  undermining  the  respect  which  the  peo- 
ple ought  to  cherish  toward  royalty.  But  would  it  not  be 
laughable  to  think  that  the  obedience  of  the  people  depends 
upon  the  number  of  the  hours  which  a  royal  family  may 
spend  in  the  society  of  tedious  and  wearisome  courtiers? 
No,  my  queen,  do  not  listen  to  the  hiss  of  the  hostile  ser- 
pents which  surround  you.  Go,  courageously,  your  own 
way — the  way  of  innocence,  guilelessness,  and  love." 

"I  thank  you — oh,  I  thank  you!"  cried  Marie  Antoi- 
nette. "  You  have  lifted  heavy  doubts  from  my  heart  and 
strengthened  my  courage.  I  thank  you!" 

And,  with  beaming  eyes  and  a  sweet  smile,  she  extended 
both  her  hands  to  the  baron. 

He  pressed  them  tightly  within  his  own,  and,  sinking 
upon  his  knee,  drew  the  royal  hands  with  a  glow  to  his 
lips. 

"Oh,  my  queen,  my  mistress!"  he  cried,  passionately, 
"  behold  at  your  feet  your  most  faithful  servant,  your  most 
devoted  slave.  Eeceive  from  me  the  oath  of  my  eternal 
devotion  and  love.  You  have  honored  me  with  your  con- 
fidence, you  have  called  me  your  friend.  But  my  soul  and 
my  heart  glow  for  another  name.  Speak  the  word,  Marie 
Antoinette,  the  word — " 

The  queen  drew  back,  and  the  paleness  of  death  spread 
over  her  cheeks.  She  had  at  the  outset  listened  with 
amazement,  then  with  horror  and  indignation,  to  the  in- 
solent words  of  the  baron,  and  gradually  her  gentle  fea- 
tures assumed  a  fierce  and  disdainful  expression. 

"  My  lord,"  she  said,  with  the  noble  dignity  of  a  queen, 
4 


44  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  I  told  }7ou  before  that  God  is  above  us,  and  hears  our 
words.  You  have  spoken,  wantonly,  and  God  has  heard 
you.  To  Him  I  leave  the  punishment  of  your  wantonness. 
Stand  up,  my  lord!  the  king  shall  know  nothing  of  an 
insult  which  would  have  brought  you  into  ignominy  with 
him  forever.  But  if  you  ever,  by  a  glance  or  a  gesture, 
recall  this  both  wanton  and  ridiculous  scene,  the  king  shall 
hear  all  from  me!" 

And  while  the  queen  pointed,  with  a  proud  and  dignified 
gesture,  to  the  place  which  was  their  goal,  she  said,  with 
commanding  tone: 

"  Go  before,  my  lord;  I  will  follow  you  alone." 

The  Baron  de  Besenval,  the  experienced  courtier,  the 
practised  man  of  the  world,  was  undergoing  what  was  new 
to  him;  he  felt  himself  perplexed,  ashamed,  and  no  longer 
master  of  his  words.  He  had  risen  from  his  knees,  and, 
after  making  a  stiff  obeisance  to  the  queen,  he  turned  and 
went  with  a  swift  step  and  crestfallen  look  along  the  path 
which  the  queen  had  indicated. 

Marie  Antoinette  followed  him  with  her  eyes  so  long  as 
he  remained  in  sight,  then  looked  with  a  long,  sad  glance 
around  her. 

"And  so  I  am  alone  again,"  she  whispered,  "and  poorer 
by  one  illusion  more.  Ah,  and  is  it  then  true  that  there  is 
no  friendship  for  me ;  must  every  friend  be  an  envier  or 
else  a  lover?  Even  this  man,  whom  I  honored  with  my 
confidence,  toward  whom  I  cherished  the  feeling  of  a  pupil 
toward  a  teacher,  even  this  man  has  dared  to  insult  me ! 
Ah,  must  my  heart  encounter  a  new  wonder  every  day,  and 
must  my  happiness  be  purchased  with  so  many  pains?" 

And  with  a  deep  cry  of  pain  the  queen  drew  her  hands 
to  her  face,  and  wept  bitterly.  All  around  was  still.  Only 
here  and  there  were  heard  the  songs  of  the  birds  in 
the  bushes,  light  and  dreamy;  while  the  trees,  swayed 
by  the  wind,  gently  whispered,  as  if  they  wanted  to  quiet 
the  grief  of  the  queen,  and  dry  up  those  tears  which  fell 
upon  the  flowers. 

All  at  once,  after  a  short  pause,  the  queen  let  her  hands 
fall  again,  and  raised  her  head  with  proud  and  defiant 
energy. 

"Away  with  tears!"  she  said.     "  What  would  my  friends 


TRIANON.  45 

say  were  they  to  see  me?  What  buzzing  and  whispering 
would  there  be,  were  they  to  see  that  the  gentle  queen,  the 
always  happy  and  careless  Marie  Antoinette,  had  shed  tears? 
Oh,  my  God!"  she  cried,  raising  her  large  eyes  to  heaven, 
"  I  have  to-day  paid  interest  enough  for  my  happiness ; 
preserve  for  me  at  least  the  capital,  and  I  will  cheerfully 
pay  the  world  the  highest  rates,  such  as  only  a  miserly 
usurer  can  desire." 

And  with  a  proud  spirit,  and  a  lofty  carriage,  the  queen 
strode  forward  along  the  path.  The  bushes  began  to  let 
the  light  through,  and  the  queen  emerged  from  the  Eng- 
lish garden  into  the  small  plain,  in  whose  midst  Marie 
Antoinette  had  erected  her  Arcadia,  her  dream  of  paradise. 
The  queen  stood  still,  and  with  a  countenance  which 
quickly  kindled  with  joy,  and  with  eyes  which  beamed  with 
pleasure,  looked  at  the  lovely  view  which  had  been  called 
into  being  by  the  skill  of  her  architect,  Hubert  Robert. 

And  the  queen  might  well  rejoice  in  this  creation,  this 
poetic  idyl,  which  arose  out  of  the  splendor  of  palaces  like 
a  violet  in  the  sand,  and  among  the  variegated  tropical 
flowers  which  adorn  the  table  of  a  king.  Closely  adjoining 
each  other  were  little  houses  like  those  in  which  peasants 
live,  the  peasant- women  being  the  proud  ladies  of  the  royal 
court.  A  little  brook  babbled  behind  the  houses,  and 
turned  with  its  foaming  torrent  the  white  wheel  of  the  mill 
which  was  at  the  extremity  of  the  village.  Near  the  mill, 
farther  on,  stood  entirely  alone  a  little  peasant's  house,  es- 
pecially tasteful  and  elegant.  It  was  surrounded  by  flower- 
beds, vineyards,  and  laurel-paths.  The  roof  was  covered 
with  straw;  the  little  panes  were  held  by  leads  to  the 
sashes.  It  was  the  home  of  Marie  Antoinette.  The  queen 
herself  made  the  drawings,  and  wrought  out  the  plan.  It 
was  her  choice  that  it  should  be  small,  simple,  and  modest ; 
that  it  should  have  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  newness, 
and  that  rents  and  fissures  should  be  represented  on  the 
wall  by  artificial  contrivances,  so  as  to  give  the  house  an 
old  look,  and  an  appearance  of  having  been  injured.  She 
had  little  thought  how  speedily  time  could  demolish  the 
simple  pastimes  of  a  queen.  Close  by  stood  a  still  smaller 
house,  known  as  the  milk-room.  It  was  close  to  the  brook. 
And  when  Marie  Antoinette,  with  her  peasant-women,  had 


46  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HEE   SON. 

milked  the  cows,  they  bore  the  milk  through  the  village  in 
white  buckets,  with  silver  handles,  to  the  milk-room,  where 
it  was  poured  out  into  pretty,  white  pans  standing  on  tables 
of  white  marble.  On  the  other  side  of  the  road  was  the 
house  of  the  chief-magistrate  of  the  village,  and  close  by 
lived  the  schoolmaster. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  had  a  care  for  everything.  There 
were  bins  to  preserve  the  new  crops  in,  and  before  the  hay- 
scaffoldings  were  ladders  leading  up  to  the  fragrant  hay. 

"Ah,  the  world  is  beautiful,"  said  Marie  Antoinette, 
surveying  her  creation  with  a  cheerful  look.  "  I  will  enjoy 
the  pleasant  hours,  and  be  happy  here." 

She  walked  rapidly  forward,  casting  friendly  glances  up 
to  the  houses  to  see  whether  the  peasants  had  not  hid  them- 
selves within,  and  were  waiting  for  her.  But  all  was  still, 
and  not  one  of  the  inhabitants  peeped  out  from  a  single* 
window. 

All  at  once  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  loud  clattering 
sound.  The  white  wheel  of  the  mill  began  to  turn,  and  at 
the  door  appeared  the  corpulent  form  of  the  miller  in  his 
white  garments,  with  his  smiling,  meal-powdered  face,  and 
with  the  white  cap  upon  his  head. 

The  queen  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  ran 
with  quick  steps  toward  the  mill.  But  before  she  could 
reach  it,  the  door  of  the  official's  house  opposite  opened, 
and  the  mayor,  in  his  black  costume,  and  with  the  broad 
white  ribbon  around  his  neck;  the  Spanish  cane,  with  a 
gold  knob,  in  his  hand,  and  wearing  his  black,  three- 
cornered  hat,  issued  from  the  dwelling.  He  advanced 
directly  to  Marie  Antoinette,  and  resting  his  hands  upon 
his  sides  and  assuming  a  threatening  mien,  placed  himself 
in  front  of  her. 

"  We  are  very  much  dissatisfied  with  you,  for  you  neglect 
your  duties  of  hospitality  in  a  most  unbecoming  manner. 
We  must  have  you  give  your  testimony  why  you  have  come 
so  late,  for  the  flowers  are  all  hanging  their  heads,  the 
nightingales  will  not  sing  any  more,  and  the  lambs  in  the 
meadow  will  not  touch  the  sweetest  grass.  Every  thing  is 
parching  and  dying  because  you  are  not  here,  and  with 
desire  to  see  you." 

"  That  is  not  true,"  cried  another  merry  voice;  the  win- 


TRIANON.  4? 

dow  of  the  school-house  opened  with  a  rattle,  and  the  jolly 
young  schoolmaster  looked  out  and  threatened  with  his  rod 
the  grave  mayor. 

"  How  can  you  say,  sir,  that  every  thing  is  going  to  ruin? 
Am  I  not  here  to  keep  the  whole  together?  Since  the  un- 
wise people  stopped  learning,  I  have  become  the  school- 
master of  the  dear  kine,  and  am  giving  them  lessons  in  the 
art  of  making  life  agreeable.  I  am  the  dancing- master  of 
the  goats,  and  have  opened  a  ballet-school  for  the  kids." 

Marie  Antoinette  laughed  aloud.  "  Mister  schoolmas- 
ter," said  she,  "  I  am  very  desirous  to  have  a  taste  of  your 
skill,  and  I  desire  you  to  give  a  ballet  display  this  afternoon 
upon  the  great  meadow.  So  far  as  you  are  concerned,  Mr. 
Mayor,"  she  said,  with  a  laughing  nod,  "I  desire  you  to 
exercise  a  little  forbearance,  and  to  pardon  some  things  in 
me  for  my  youth's  sake." 

"  As  if  my  dear  sister-in-law  now  needed  any  looking 
after!"  cried  the  mayor,  with  an  emphatic  tone. 

"Ah,  my  Lord  de  Provence,"  said  the  queen,  smiling, 
"you  are  falling  out  of  your  part,  and  forgetting  two 
things.  The  first,  that  I  am  not  the  queen  here ;  and  the 
second,  that  here  in  Trianon  all  flatteries  are  forbidden." 

"  It  lies  in  you,  whether  the  truth  should  appear  as  flat- 
tery," answered  the  Count  de  Provence,  slightly  bowing. 

"That  is  an  answer  worthy  of  a  scholar,"  cried  the 
schoolmaster,  Count  d'Artois.  "  Brother,  you  do  not  know 
the  A  B  C  of  gallantry.  You  must  go  to  school  to  me." 

"  I  do  not  doubt,  brother  Charles,  that  in  this  thing  I 
could  learn  very  much  of  you,"  said  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence, smiling.  "  Meanwhile,  I  am  not  sure  that  my  wife 
would  be  satisfied  with  the  instruction." 

"Some  time  we  will  ask  her  about  it,"  said  the  queen. 
"  Good-by,  my  brothers,  I  must  first  greet  my  dear  miller." 

She  rushed  forward,  sprang  with  a  flying  step  up  the 
little  wooden  stairway,  and  threw  both  her  arms  around 
the  neck  of  the  miller,  who,  laughingly,  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  and  drew  her  within  the  mill. 

"I  thank  you,  Louis!"  cried  the  queen,  bending  forward 
and  pressing  the  hand  of  her  husband  to  her  lips.  "  What  a 
pleasant  surprise  you  have  prepared  for  me ;  and  how  good 
it  is  in  you  to  meet  me  here  in  my  pleasant  plantation!" 


48  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  Did  you  not  say  but  lately  that  you  wanted  this  mas- 
querade?" asked  the  king,  with  a  pleasant  smile.  "Did 
not  you  yourself  assign  the  parts,  and  appoint  me  to  be  the 
miller,  the  Count  de  Provence  to  be  mayor,  and  the  whim- 
sical Artois  to  be  schoolmaster  de  par  la  reine,  as  it  runs 
here  in  Trianon,  and  do  you  wonder  now  that  we,  as  it 
becomes  the  obedient,  follow  our  queen's  commands,  and 
undertake  the  charge  which  she  intrusts  to  us?" 

"Oh,  Louis,  how  good  you  are!"  said  the  queen,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  know  indeed  how  little  pleasure  you, 
so  far  as  you  yourself  are  concerned,  find  in  these  foolish 
sports  and  idle  acts,  and  yet  you  sacrifice  your  own  wishes 
and  take  part  in  our  games." 

"  That  is  because  I  love  you !"  said  the  king  with  sim- 
plicity, and  a  smile  of  pleasure  beautified  his  broad,  good- 
natured  face.  "  Yes,  Marie,  I  love  you  tenderly,  and  it 
gives  me  joy  to  contribute  to  your  happiness." 

The  queen  gently  laid  her  arm  around  Louis's  neck,  and 
let  her  head  fall  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Do  you  still  know, 
Louis,"  asked  she,  "  do  you  still  know  what  you  said  to  me 
when  you  gave  Trianon  to  me?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  king,  shaking  his  head  slowly. 

"You  said  to  me,  'You  love  flowers.  I  will  present  to 
you  a  whole  bouquet.  I  give  you  Little  Trianon. '  *  My 
dear  sire!  you  have  given  me  not  only  a  bouquet  of  flowers, 
but  a  bouquet  of  pleasant  hours,  of  happy  years,  for  which 
I  thank  you,  and  you  alone." 

"And  may  this  bouquet  never  wither,  Marie!"  said  the 
king,  laying  his  hand  as  if  in  blessing  on  the  head  of  his 
wife,  and  raising  his  good,  blue  eyes  with  a  pious  and 
prayerful  look.  "But,  my  good  woman,"  said  he  then, 
after  a  little  pause,  "  you  quite  let  me  forget  the  part  I 
have  to  play,  and  the  mill-wheel  is  standing  still  again, 
since  the  miller  is  not  there.  It  is,  besides,  in  wretched 
order,  and  it  is  full  needful  that  I  practise  my  art  of  black- 
smith here  a  little,  and  put  better  screws  and  springs  in  the 
machine.  But  listen!  what  kind  of  song  is  that  without?" 

"Those  are  the  peasants  greeting  us  with  their  singing," 
said  the  queen,  smiling.  "  Come,  Mr.  Miller,  let  us  show 
ourselves  to  them." 

*  The  very  words  of  the  king.— See  "Memoire  de  Marquis  de  Crequy,"  vol.  iv. 


TRIANON.  49 

She  drew  the  king  out  upon  the  small  staircase.  Directly 
at  the  foot  of  it  stood  the  king's  two  brothers,  the  Counts 
de  Provence  and  Artois,  as  chief  official  and  schoolmaster, 
and  behind  them  the  duchesses  and  princesses,  dukes  and 
counts,  arrayed  as  peasants.  In  united  chorus  they  greeted 
the  mistress  and  the  miller: 

"Ofc  peufc-on  etre  mieux, 
Qu'au  sein  de  sa  famille?  " 

The  queen  smiled,  and  yet  tears  glittered  in  her  eyes, 
tears  of  joy. 

Those  were  happy  hours  which  the  royal  pair  spent  that 
day  in  Trianon — hours  of  such  bright  sunshine  that  Marie 
Antoinette  quite  forgot  the  sad  clouds  of  the  morning,  and 
gave  herself  undisturbed  to  the  enjoyment  of  this  simple, 
country  life.  They  sat  down  to  a  country  dinner — a  slight, 
simple  repast,  brought  together  from  the  resources  of  the 
hen-coop,  the  mill,  and  the  milk-room.  Then  the  whole 
company  went  out  to  lie  down  in  the  luxuriant  grass  which 
grew  on  the  border  of  the  little  grove,  and  looked  at  the 
cows  grazing  before  them  on  the  meadow,  and  with  stately 
dignity  pursuing  the  serious  occupation  of  chewing  the 
cud.  But  as  peasants  have  something  else  to  do  than  to 
live  and  enjoy,  their  mistress,  Marie  Antoinette,  soon  left 
her  resting-place  to  set  her  people  a  good  example  in  work- 
ing. The  spinning-wheel  was  brought  and  set  upon  a  low 
stool;  Marie  Antoinette  began  to  spin.  How  quickly  the 
wheel  began  to  turn,  as  if  it  were  the  wheel  of  fortune — 
to-day  bringing  joy,  and  to-morrow  calamity! 

The  evening  has  not  yet  come,  and  the  wheel  of  fortune 
is  yet  turning,  yet  calamity  is  there. 

Marie  Antoinette  does  not  yet  know  it;  her  eye  still 
beams  with  joy,  a  happy  smile  still  plays  upon  her  rosy  lips. 
She  is  sitting  now  with  her  company  by  the  lake,  with  the 
hook  in  her  hand,  and  looking  with  laughing  face  and 
fixed  attention  at  the  rod,  and  crying  aloud  as  often  as  she 
catches  a  fish.  For  these  fishes  are  to  serve  as  supper  for 
the  company,  and  the  queen  has  ceremoniously  invited  her 
husband  to  an  evening  meal,  which  she  herself  will  serve 
and  prepare.  The  queen  smiles  still  and  is  happy;  her 
spinning-wheel  is  silent,  but  the  wheel  of  fate  is  moving 
still. 


50  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

The  king  is  no  longer  there.  He  has  withdrawn  into 
the  mill  to  rest  himself. 

And  yet  there  he  is  not  alone.  Who  ventures  to  disturb 
him?  It  must  be  something  very  serious.  For  it  is  well 
known  that  the  king  very  seldom  goes  to  Trianon,  and 
that  when  he  is  there  he  wishes  to  be  entirely  free  from 
business. 

And  yet  he  is  disturbed  to-day ;  yet  the  premier,  Baron 
de  Breteuil,  is  come  to  seek  the  miller  of  Little  Trianon, 
and  to  beseech  him  even  there  to  be  the  king  again. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE   QUEEN'S   NECKLACE. 

DIEECTLY  after  a  page,  arrayed  in  the  attire  of  a  miller's 
boy,  had  announced  the  Baron  de  Breteuil,  the  king  with- 
drew into  his  chamber  and  resumed  his  own  proper  cloth- 
ing. He  drew  on  the  long,  gray  coat,  the  short  trousers 
of  black  velvet,  the  long,  gold-embroidered  waistcoat  of 
gray  satin;  and  over  this  the  bright,  thin  ribbon  of  the 
Order  of  Louis — the  attire  in  which  the  king  was  accus- 
tomed to  present  himself  on  gala-days. 

With  troubled,  disturbed  countenance,  he  then  entered 
the  little  apartment  where  his  chief  minister,  the  Baron  de 
Breteuil,  was  awaiting  him. 

"Tell  me  quickly,"  ejaculated  the  king,  "do  you  bring 
bad  news?  Has  any  thing  unexpected  occurred?" 

"Sire,"  answered  the  minister,  respectfully,  "something 
unexpected  at  all  events,  but  whether  something  bad  will 
be  learned  after  further  investigation." 

"Investigation!"  cried  the  king.  "  Then  do  you  speak 
of  a  crime?" 

"Yes,  sire,  of  a  crime — the  crime  of  a  base  deception, 
and,  as  it  seems,  of  a  defalcation  involving  immense  sums 
and  objects  of  great  value." 

"Ah,"  said  the  king,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "then  the 
trouble  is  only  one  of  money." 

"  No,  sire,  it  is  one  which  concerns  the  honor  of  the 
queen." 


THE    QUEEN'S    NECKLACE.  51 

Louis  arose,  while  a  burning  flush  of  indignation  passed 
over  his  face. 

"Will  they  venture  again  to  assail  the  honor  of  the 
queen?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sire,"  answered  Breteuil,  with  his  invincible  calm- 
ness— "  yes,  sire,  they  will  venture  to  do  so.  And  at  this 
time  it  is  so  infernal  and  deeply-laid  a  plan  that  it  will 
be  difficult  to  get  at  the  truth.  Will  your  majesty  allow 
me  to  unfold  the  details  of  the  matter  somewhat  fully?" 

"Speak,  baron,  speak,"  said  the  king,  eagerly,  taking 
his  seat  upon  a  wooden  stool,  and  motioning  to  the  minis- 
ter to  do  the  same. 

"  Sire,"  answered  the  premier,  with  a  bow,  "  I  will  ven- 
ture to  sit,  because  I  am  in  fact  a  little  exhausted  with 
my  quick  run  hither." 

"And  is  the  matter  so  pressing?"  muttered  the  king, 
drawing  out  his  tobacco-box,  and  in  his  impatience  rolling 
it  between  his  fingers. 

"  Yes,  very  pressing,"  answered  Breteuil,  taking  his  seat. 
"  Does  your  majesty  remember  the  beautiful  necklace  which 
the  court  jeweller,  Bohmer,  some  time  since  had  the  honor 
to  offer  to  your  majesty?" 

"Certainly,  I  remember  it,"  answered  the  king,  quickly 
nodding.  "  The  queen  showed  herself  on  that  occasion 
just  as  unselfish  and  magnanimous  as  she  always  is.  It 
was  told  me  that  her  majesty  had  very  much  admired  the 
necklace  which  Bohmer  had  showed  to  her,  and  yet  had 
declined  to  purchase  it,  because  it  seemed  to  her  too  dear. 
I  wanted  to  buy  it  and  have  the  pleasure  of  offering  it  to 
the  queen,  but  she  decisively  refused  it." 

"  We  well  remember  the  beautiful  answer  which  her 
majesty  gave  to  her  husband,"  said  Breteuil,  gently  bowing. 
"  All  Paris  repeated  with  delight  the  words  which  her 
majesty  uttered :  'Sir,  we  have  more  diamonds  than  ships. 
Buy  a  ship  with  this  money!'  "  * 

"You  have  a  good  memory,"  said  the  king,  "for  it  is 
five  years  since  this  happened.  Bohmer  has  twice  made 
the  attempt  since  then  to  sell  this  costly  necklace  to  me, 
but  I  have  dismissed  him,  and  at  last  forbidden  him  to 
allude  to  the  matter  again." 

*  "  Correspondance  SecrSte  de  la  Cour  de  Louis  XVI." 


52  MAKIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"  I  believe  that  he  has,  meanwhile,  ventured  to  trouble 
the  queen  several  times  about  the  necklace.  It  appears 
that  he  had  almost  persuaded  himself  that  your  majesty 
would  purchase  it.  Years  ago  he  caused  stones  to  be 
selected  through  all  Europe,  wishing  to  make  a  necklace 
of  diamonds  which  should  be  alike  large,  heavy,  and  brill- 
iant. The  queen  refusing  to  give  him  his  price  of  two 
million  francs,  he  offered  it  at  last  for  one  million  eight 
hundred  thousand." 

"I  have  heard  of  that,"  said  the  king.  "Her  majesty 
was  at  last  weary  of  the  trouble,  and  gave  command  that 
the  court  jeweller,  Bohmer,  should  not  be  admitted." 

"  Every  time,  therefore,  that  he  came  to  Versailles  he 
was  refused  admittance.  He  then  had  recourse  to  writ- 
ing, and  two  weeks  ago  her  majesty  received  from  him  a 
begging  letter,  in  which  he  said  that  he  should  be  very 
happy  if,  through  his  instrumentality,  the  queen  could 
possess  the  finest  diamonds  in  Europe,  and  imploring  her 
majesty  not  to  forget  her  court  jeweller.  The  queen  read 
this  letter,  laughing,  to  her  lady-in-waiting,  Madame  de 
Campan,  and  said  it  seemed  as  if  the  necklace  had  deprived 
the  good  Bohmer  of  his  reason.  But  not  wishing  to  pay 
any  further  attention  to  his  letter  or  to  answer  it,  she 
burned  the  paper  in  a  candle  which  was  accidentally  stand- 
ing on  her  table." 

"Good  Heaven!  How  do  you  know  these  details?" 
asked  the  king,  in  amazement. 

"  Sire,  I  have  learned  them  from  Madame  de  Campan 
herself,  as  I  was  compelled  to  speak  with  her  about  the 
necklace." 

"But  what  is  it  about  this  necklace?  What  has  the 
queen  to  do  with  that?"  asked  the  king,  wiping  with  a 
lace  handkerchief  the  sweat  which  stood  in  great  drops 
upon  his  lofty  forehead. 

"  Sire,  the  court  jeweller,  Bohmer,  asserts  that  he  sold 
the  necklace  of  brilliants  to  the  queen,  and  now  desires  to 
be  paid." 

"  The  queen  is  right,"  exclaimed  the  king, "  the  man  is  out 
of  his  head.  If  he  did  sell  the  necklace  to  the  queen,  there 
must  have  been  witnesses  present  to  confirm  it,  and  the  keep- 
ers of  her  majesty's  purse  would  certainly  know  about  it." 


THE   QUEEN'S   NECKLACE.  53 

"  Sire,  Bohmer  asserts  that  the  queen  caused  it  to  be 
bought  of  him  in  secret,  through  a  third  hand,  and  that 
this  confidential  messenger  was  empowered  to  pay  down 
thirty  thousand  francs,  and  to  promise  two  hundred  thou- 
sand more." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  confidential  messenger? 
What  do  they  call  him?" 

"Sire,"  answered  the  Baron  de  Breteuil,  solemnly — 
"sire,  it  is  the  cardinal  and  grand  almoner  of  your 
majesty,  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan." 

The  king  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  sprang  quickly  from 
his  seat. 

"Rohan?"  asked  he.  "And  do  they  dare  to  bring  this 
man  whom  the  queen  hates,  whom  she  scorns,  into  relations 
with  her?  Ha,  Breteuil!  you  can  go;  the  story  is  too 
foolishly  put  together  for  any  one  to  believe  it.'1 

"  Your  majesty,  Bohmer  has,  in  the  mean  while,  believed 
it,  and  has  delivered  the  necklace  to  the  cardinal,  and  re- 
ceived the  queen's  promise  to  pay,  written  with  her  own 
hand." 

"  Who  says  that?     How  do  you  know  all  the  details?" 

"  Sire,  I  know  it  by  a  paper  of  Bohmer's,  who  wrote  to 
me  after  trying  in  vain  several  times  to  see  me.  The  let- 
ter was  a  tolerably  confused  one,  and  I  did  not  understand 
it.  But  as  he  stated  in  it  that  the  queen's  lady-in-waiting 
advised  him  to  apply  to  me  as  the  minister  of  the  royal 
house,  I, considered  it  best  to  speak  with  Madame  de  Cam- 
pan.  What  I  learned  of  her  is  so  important  that  I  begged 
her  to  accompany  me  to  Trianon,  and  to  repeat  her  state- 
ment before  your  majesty. " 

"  Is  Campan  then  in  Trianon?"  asked  the  king. 

"Yes,  sire;  and  on  our  arrival  we  learned  that  Bohmer 
had  just  been  there,  and  was  most  anxious  to  speak  to  the 
queen.  He  had  been  denied  admission  as  always,  and  had 
gone  away  weeping  and  scolding." 

"  Come,"  said  the  king,  "let  us  go  to  Trianon;  I  want 
to  speak  with  Campan." 

And  with  quick,  rapid  steps  the  king,  followed  by  the 
minister  Breteuil,  left  the  mill,  and  shunning  the  main 
road  in  order  not  to  be  seen  by  the  queen,  struck  into  the 
little  side-path  that  led  thither  behind  the  houses. 


54  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"  Campan,"  said  the  king,  hastily  entering  the  little 
toilet-room  of  the  queen,  where  the  lady-in-waiting  was — 
"  Campan,  the  minister  has  just  been  telling  me  a  singular 
and  incredible  history.  Yet  repeat  to  me  your  last  con- 
versation with  Bohmer." 

"Sire,"  replied  Madame  de  Campan,  bowing  low,  "does 
your  majesty  command  that  I  speak  before  the  queen 
knows  of  the  matter?" 

"Ah,"  said  the  king,  turning  to  the  minister,  "you  see  I 
am  right.  The  queen  knows  nothing  of  this,  else  she 
would  certainly  have  spoken  to  me  about  it.  Thank  God, 
the  queen  withholds  no  secrets  from  me!  I  thank  you  for 
your  question,  Campan.  It  is  better  that  the  queen  be 
present  at  our  interview.  I  will  send  for  her  to  come 
here."  And  the  king  hastened  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
called,  "  Are  any  of  the  queen's  servants  here?" 

The  voice  of  the  king  was  so  loud  and  violent  that  the 
chamberlain,  Weber,  who  was  in  the  little  outer  antecham- 
ber, heard  it,  and  at  once  rushed  in. 

"  Weber,"  cried  the  king  to  him,  "  hasten  at  once  to  Lit- 
tle Trianon.  Beg  the  queen,  in  my  name,  to  have  the 
goodness  to  come  to  the  palace  within  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  to  consult  about  a  weighty  matter  that  allows  no 
delay.  But  take  care  that  the  queen  be  not  alarmed,  and 
that  she  do  not  suspect  that  sad  news  has  come  regarding 
her  family.  Hasten,  Weber!  And  now,  baron,"  contin- 
ued the  king,  closing  the  door,  "now  you  shall  be  con- 
vinced by  your  own  eyes  and  ears  that  the  queen  will  be  as 
amazed  and  as  little  acquainted  with  all  these  things  as  I 
myself.  I  wish,  therefore,  that  you  would  be  present  at 
the  interview  which  I  shall  have  with  my  wife  and  Cam- 
pan,  without  the  queen's  knowing  that  you  are  near. 
You  will  be  convinced  at  once  in  this  way  of  the  impudent 
and  shameless  deception  that  they  have  dared  to  play. 
Where  does  that  door  lead  to,  Campan?"  asked  the  king, 
pointing  to  the  white,  gold-bordered  door,  at  whose  side  two 
curtains  of  white  satin,  wrought  with  roses,  were  secured. 

"  Sire,  it  leads  to  the  small  reception-room." 

"  Will  the  queen  pass  that  way  when  she  comes?" 

"  No,  your  majesty,  she  is  accustomed  to  take  the  same 
way  which  your  majesty  took,  through  the  antechamber." 


THE   QUEEN'S    NECKLACE.  55 

"  Good.  Then,  baron,  go  into  the  little  saloon.  Leave 
the  door  open,  and  do  you,  Campan,  loosen  the  curtains 
and  let  them  fall  over  the  door,  that  the  minister  may  hear 
without  being  seen." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  scarcely  elapsed  when  the 
queen  entered  the  toilet-chamber,  with  glowing  cheeks, 
and  under  visible  excitement.  The  king  went  hastily  to 
her,  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Forgiveness,  Marie,  that  I  have  disturbed  you  in  the 
midst  of  your  pleasures." 

"Tell  me,  quickly,"  cried  the  queen,  impatiently. 
"  What  is  it?  Is  it  a  great  misfortune?" 

"No,  Marie,  but  a  great  annoyance,  which  is  so  far  a 
misfortune  in  that  the  name  of  your  majesty  is  involved  in 
a  disagreeable  and  absurd,  plot.  The  court  jeweller,  Boh- 
mer,  asserts  that  he  has  sold  a  necklace  to  your  majesty  for 
one  million  eight  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  But  the  man  is  crazy,"  cried  the  queen.  "  Is  that  all 
your  majesty  had  to  say  to  me?" 

"  I  beg  that  Campan  will  repeat  the  conversation  which 
she  had  yesterday  with  Bohmer." 

And  the  king  beckoned  with  his  hand  to  the  lady-in- 
waiting,  who,  at  the  entrance  of  the  queen,  had  modestly 
taken  her  seat  at  the  back  part  of  the  room. 

"How!"  cried  the  queen,  amazed,  now  first  perceiving 
Campan.  "  What  do  you  here?  What  does  all  this  mean?" 

"  Your  majesty,  I  came  to  Trianon  to  inform  you  about 
the  conversation  which  I  had  yesterday  with  Bohmer. 
When  I  arrived  I  found  he  had  just  been  here." 

"  And  what  did  he  want  ?  "  cried  the  queen.  "  Did  you 
not  tell  me,  Campan,  that  he  no  longer  possesses  this  un- 
fortunate necklace,  with  which  he  has  been  making  a  mar- 
tyr of  me  for  years?  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  he  had  sold 
it  to  the  Grand  Sultan,  to  go  to  Constantinople?" 

"  I  repeated  to  your  majesty  what  Bohmer  said  to  me. 
Meanwhile  I  beg  now  your  gracious  permission  to  repeat 
my  to-day's  interview  with  Bohmer.  Directly  after  your 
majesty  had  gone  to  Trianon  with  the  Duchess  de  Po- 
lignac,  the  court  jeweller  Bohmer  was  announced.  He 
came  with  visible  disquiet  and  perplexity,  and  asked  me 
whether  your  majesty  had  left  no  commission  for  him.  I 


56  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

answered  him  that  the  queen  had  not  done  so,  that  in  one 
word  she  had  no  commission  for  him,  and  that  she  was 
tired  of  his  eternal  pestering.  'But,'  said  Bohmer,  'I  must 
have  an  answer  to  the  letter  that  I  sent  to  her,  and  to 
whom  must  I  apply?'  'To  nobody,'  I  answered.  'Her 
majesty  has  burned  your  letter  without  reading  it.'  'Ah! 
madame, '  cried  he,  'that  is  impossible.  The  queen  knows 
that  she  owes  me  money. ' ' 

"  I  owe  him  money!"  cried  the  queen,  horrified.  "  How 
can  the  miserable  man  dare  to  assert  such  a  thing?" 

"  That  I  said  to  him,  your  majesty,  but  he  answered, 
with  complete  self-possession,  that  your  majesty  owed  him 
a  million  and  some  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  and 
when  I  asked  him  in  complete  amazement  for  what  articles 
your  majesty  owed  him  such  a  monstrous  sum,  he  an- 
swered, 'For  my  necklace.' ' 

"This  miserable  necklace  again!"  exclaimed  the  queen. 
"  It  seems  as  if  the  man  made  it  only  to  make  a  martyr  of 
me  with  it.  Year  after  year  I  hear  perpetually  about  this 
necklace,  and  it  has  been  quite  in  vain  that,  with  all  my  care 
and  good-will,  I  have  sought  to  drive  from  him  this  fixed 
idea  that  1  must  buy  it.  He  is  so  far  gone  in  his  illusion 
as  to  assert  that  I  have  bought  it." 

"Madame,  this  man  is  not  insane,"  said  the  king,  seri- 
ously. "  Listen  further.  Go  on,  Campan." 

"  I  laughed,"  continued  Madame  de  Campan,  "  and  asked 
him  how  he  could  assert  such  a  thing,  when  he  told  me 
only  a  few  months  ago  that  he  had  sold  the  necklace  to  the 
Sultan.  Then  he  replied  that  the  queen  had  ordered  him 
to  give  this  answer  to  every  one  that  asked  about  the  neck- 
lace. Then  he  told  me  further,  that  your  majesty  had 
secretly  bought  the  necklace,  and  through  the  instrumen- 
tality of  the  Lord  Cardinal  de  Rohan." 

"  Through  Rohan?"  cried  the  queen,  rising.  "  Through 
the  man  whom  I  hate  and  despise?  \  And  is  there  a  man  in 
France  who  can  believe  this,  and  who  does  not  know  that 
the  cardinal  is  the  one  who  stands  the  lowest  in  my 
favor!" 

"  I  said  to  Mr.  Bohmer — I  said  to  him  that  he  was  de- 
ceived, that  the  queen  would  never  make  a  confidant  of 
Cardinal  Rohan,  and  he  made  me  this  very  answer:  'You 


THE    QUEEN'S   NECKLACE.  57 

deceive  yourself,  madame.  The  cardinal  stands  so  high  in 
favor,  and  maintains  such  confidential  relations  with  her 
majesty,  that  she  had  sent,  through  his  hands,  thirty 
thousand  francs  as  a  first  payment.  The  queen  took  this 
money  in  the  presence  of  the  cardinal,  from  the  little 
secretary  of  Sevres  porcelain,  which  stands  near  to  the 
chimney  in  her  boudoir.'  'And  did  the  cardinal  really 
say  that?'  I  asked;  and  when  he  reaffirmed  it,  I  told  him 
that  he  was  deceived.  He  now  began  to  be  very  much 
troubled,  and  said, 'Good  Heaven!  what  if  you  are  right, 
what  if  I  am  deceived!  There  has  already  a  suspicion 
come  to  me;  the  cardinal  promised  me  that  on  Whit- 
sunday the  queen  would  wear  the  collar,  and  she  did  not 
do  so;  so  this  determined  me  to  write  to  her.'  When 
now,  full  of  anxiety,  he  asked  what  advice  I  could  give 
him,  I  at  once  bade  him  go  to  Lord  Breteuil  and  tell  him 
all.  He  promised  to  do  so,  and  went.  But  I  hastened  to 
come  hither  to  tell  your  majesty  the  whole  story,  but  when 
I  arrived  I  found  the  unhappy  jeweller  already  here,  and 
he  only  went  away  after  I  gave  him  my  promise  to  speak 
to-day  with  your  majesty." 

The  queen  had  at  the  outset  listened  with  speechless 
amazement,  and  as  Campan  approached  the  close  of  her 
communication,  her  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider.  She 
had  stood  as  rigid  as  a  statue.  But  now  all  at  once  life 
and  animation  took  possession  of  this  statue;  a  glowing 
purple-red  diffused  itself  over  her  cheeks,  and  directing 
her  eyes,  which  blazed  with  wonderful  fire,  to  the  king, 
she  said,  with  a  loud  and  commanding  voice,  "  Sire,  you 
have  heard  this  story.  Your  wife  is  accused,  and  the 
queen  is  even  charged  with  having  a  secret  understanding 
with  Cardinal  Rohan.  I  desire  an  investigation — a  rigid, 
strict  investigation.  Call  at  once,  Lord  Breteuil,  that  we 
may  take  counsel  with  him.  But  I  insist  upon  having 
this  done." 

"And  your  will  is  law,  madame,"  said  the  king,  direct- 
ing an  affectionate  glance  at  the  excited  face  of  the  queen. 
"Come  out,  Breteuil!" 

And  as  between  the  curtains  appeared  the  serious,  sad 
face  of  the  minister,  the  king  turned  to  his  wife  and  said : 
"  I  wished  that  he  might  be  a  secret  witness  of  this  interview, 


58  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

and  survey  the  position  which  you  should  take  in  this 
matter." 

"Oh,  sire!"  exclaimed  Marie  Antoinette,  extending  her 
hand  to  him,  "  so  you  did  not  for  an  instant  doubt  my 
innocence?" 

"No,  truly,  not  a  moment,"  answered  the  king,  with  a 
smile.  "  But  now  come,  madame,  we  will  consider  with 
Breteuil  what  is  to  be  done,  and  then  we  will  summon  the 
Abbe  de  Viermont,  that  he  may  take  part  in  our  deliber- 
ations." 

On  the  next  day,  the  loth  of  August,  a  brilliant,  select 
company  was  assembled  in  the  saloons  of  Versailles.  It 
was  a  great  holiday,  Ascension-day,  and  the  king  and  the 
queen,  with  the  entire  court,  intended  to  be  present  at  the 
mass,  which  the  cardinal  and  the  grand  almoner  would 
celebrate  in  the  chapel. 

The  entire  brilliant  court  was  assembled ;  the  cardinal 
arrayed  in  his  suitable  apparel,  and  wearing  all  the  tokens 
of  his  rank,  had  entered  the  great  reception-room,  and 
only  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  royal  pair,  to  lead  them  into 
the  church.  The  fine  and  much-admired  face  of  the  car- 
dinal wore  to-day  a  beaming  expression,  and  his  great 
black  eyes  were  continually  directed,  while  he  was  talking 
with  the  Duke  de  Conti  and  the  Count  d'Artois,  toward 
the  door  through  which  the  royal  couple  would  enter.  All 
at  once  the  portal  opened,  a  royal  page  stepped  in  and 
glanced  searchingly  around;  and  seeing  the  towering  fig- 
ure of  the  cardinal  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  he  at  once 
advanced  through  the  glittering  company,  and  approached 
the  cardinal.  "  Monseigneur,"  he  whispered  to  him,  "his 
majesty  is  awaiting  your  eminence's  immediate  appearance 
in  the  cabinet." 

The  cardinal  broke  off  abruptly  his  conversation  with 
Lord  Conti,  hurried  through  the  hall  and  entered  the 
cabinet. 

No  one  was  there  except  the  king  and  queen,  and  in  the 
background  of  the  apartment,  in  the  recess  formed  by  a 
window,  the  premier,  Baron  Breteuil,  the  old  and  irrecon- 
cilable enemy  of  the  proud  cardinal,  who  in  this  hour 
would  have  his  reward  for  his  year-long  and  ignominious 
treatment  of  the  prince. 


THE   QUEEN'S   NECKLACE.  59 

The  cardinal  had  entered  with  a  confident,  dignified 
bearing;  but  the  cold  look  of  the  king  and  the  flaming  eye 
of  the  queen  appeared  to  confuse  him  a  little,  and  his 
proud  eye  sank  to  the  ground. 

"  You  have  been  buying  diamonds  of  Bohmer?"  asked 
the  king,  brusquely. 

"Yes,  sire,"  answered  the  cardinal. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  them?  Answer  me,  I  com- 
mand you." 

"Sire,"  said  the  cardinal,  after  a  pause,  "I  supposed 
that  they  were  given  to  the  queen." 

"Who  intrusted  you  with  this  commission?" 

"  Sire,  a  lady  named  Countess  Lamotte-Valois.  She 
gave  me  a  letter  from  her  majesty,  and  I  believed  that  I 
should  be  doing  the  queen  a  favor  if  I  should  undertake 
the  care  of  the  commission  which  the  queen  had  the  grace 
to  intrust  to  me." 

"I!"  cried  the  queen,  with  an  expression  of  intense 
scorn,  "  should  I  intrust  you  with  a  commission  in  my  be- 
half? I,  who  for  eight  years  have  never  deigned  to  bestow 
a  word  upon  you  ?  And  I  should  employ  such  a  person  as 
you,  a  beggar  of  places?" 

"I  see  plainly,"  cried  the  cardinal,  "I  see  plainly  that 
some  one  has  deceived  you  grievously  about  me.  I  will 
pay  for  the  necklace.  The  earnest  wish  to  please  your 
majesty  has  blinded  your  eyes  regarding  me.  I  have 
planned  no  deception,  and  am  now  bitterly  undeceived. 
But  I  will  pay  for  the  necklace." 

"And  you  suppose  that  that  ends  all!"  said  the  queen, 
with  a  burst  of  anger.  "  You  think  that,  with  a  pitiful 
paying  for  the  brilliants,  you  can  atone  for  the  disgrace 
which  you  have  brought  upon  your  queen?  No,  no,  sir; 
I  desire  a  rigid  investigation.  I  insist  upon  it  that  all 
who  have  taken  part  in  this  ignominious  deception  be 
brought  to  a  relentless  investigation.  Give  me  the  proofs 
that  you  have  been  deceived,  and  that  you  are  not  much 
rather  the  deceiver." 

"Ah,  madame,"  cried  the  cardinal,  with  a  look  at  once 
so  full  of  reproach  and  confidence,  that  the  queen  fairly 
shook  with  anger.  "  Here  are  the  proofs  of  my  inno- 
cence," continued  he,  drawing  a  small  portfolio  from  his 
5 


60  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

pocket,  and  taking  from  it  a  folded  paper.  "  There  is  the 
letter  of  the  queen  to  the  Countess  Lamotte,  in  which  her 
majesty  empowered  me  to  purchase  the  diamonds." 

The'  king  took  the  paper,  looked  over  it  hastily,  read 
the  signature,  and  gave  it,  with  a  suspicious  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  to  his  wife. 

The  queen  seized  the  letter  with  the  wild  fury  of  a 
tigress,  which  has  at  last  found  its  prey,  and  with  breath- 
less haste  ran  over  the  paper.  Then  she  broke  out  into 
loud,  scornful  laughter,  and,  pointing  to  the  letter,  she 
looked  at  the  cardinal  with  glances  of  flame. 

"  That  is  not  my  handwriting — that  is  not  my  signa- 
ture!" cried  she,  furiously.  "  How  are  you,  sir,  a  prince 
and  grand  almoner  of  France — how  are  you  so  ignorant, 
so  foolish,  as  to  believe  that  I  could  subscribe  myself 
'Marie  Antoinette  of  France?'  Everybody  knows  that 
queens  write  only  their  baptismal  names  as  signatures,  and 
you  alone  have  not  known  that?" 

"  I  see  into  it,"  muttered  the  cardinal,  pale  under  the 
look  of  the  queen,  and  BO  weak  that  he  had  to  rest  upon 
the  table  for  support,  "I  see  into  it;  I  have  been  dread- 
fully deceived." 

The  king  took  a  paper  from  his  table  and  gave  it  to  the 
cardinal.  "  Do  you  confess  that  you  wrote  this  letter  to 
Bohmer,  in  which  you  send  him  thirty  thousand  francs  in 
behalf  of  the  queen,  in  part  payment  for  the  necklace?" 

"Yes,  sire,  I  confess  it,"  answered  the  cardinal,  with  a 
low  voice,  which  seemed  to  contradict  what  he  uttered. 

"He  confesses  it,"  cried  the  queen,  gnashing  her  teeth, 
and  making  up  her  little  hand  into  a  clinched  fist.  "  He 
has  held  me  fit  for  such  infamy — me,  his  queen!" 

"  You  assert  that  you  bought  the  jewels  for  the  queen. 
Did  you  deliver  them  in  person?" 

"No,  sire,  the  Countess  Lamotte  did  that." 

"In  your  name,  cardinal?" 

"  Yes,  in  my  name,  sire,  and  she  gave  at  the  same  time 
a  receipt  to  the  queen  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs,  which  I  lent  the  queen  toward  the  purchase." 

"  And  what  reward  did  you  have  from  the  queen?" 

The  cardinal  hesitated ;  then,  as  he  felt  the  angry,  cold, 
and  contemning  look  of  the  queen  resting  upon  him,  the 


THE    QUEEN'S    NECKLACE.  61 

red  blood  mounted  into  his  face,  and  with  a  withering 
glance  at  Marie  Antoinette,  he  said : 

"  You  wish,  madame,  that  I  should  speak  the  whole 
truth !  Sire,  the  queen  rewarded  me  for  this  little  work 
of  love  in  a  manner  worthy  of  a  queen.  She  granted  me 
an  appointment  in  the  park  of  Versailles." 

At  this  new  and  fearful  charge,  the  queen  cried  aloud, 
and,  springing  forward  like  a  tigress,  she  seized  the  arm 
of  her  husband  and  shook  it. 

"Sire,"  said  she,  "listen  to  this  high  traitor,  bringing 
infamy  upon  a  queen  1  Will  you  bear  it?  Can  his  purple 
protect  the  villain?" 

"No,  it  cannot,  and  it  shall  not!"  cried  the  king. 
"  Breteuil,  do  your  duty.  And  you,  cardinal,  who  venture 
to  accuse  your  queen,  to  scandalize  the  good  name  of  the 
wife  of  your  king,  go." 

"Sire,"  stammered  the  cardinal,  "sire,  I — " 

"Not  a  word,"  interrupted  the  king,  raising  his  hand 
and  pointing  toward  the  door,  "out,  I  say,  out  with  you!" 

The  cardinal  staggered  to  the  door,  and  entered  the  hall 
filled  with  a  glittering  throng,  who  were  still  whispering, 
laughing,  and  walking  to  and  fro. 

But  hardly  had  he  advanced  a  few  steps,  when  behind 
him,  upon  the  threshold  of-  the  royal  cabinet,  appeared 
the  minister  Breteuil. 

"Lieutenant,"  cried  Breteuil,  with  a  loud  voice,  turn- 
ing to  the  officer  in  command  of  the  guard,  "  lieutenant, 
in  the  name  of  the  king,  arrest  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan, 
and  take  him  under  escort  to  the  Bastile." 

A  .general  cry  of  horror  followed  these  words,  which 
rolled  like  a  crashing  thunder-clap  through  the  careless, 
coquetting,  and  unsuspecting  company.  Then  followed  a 
breathless  silence. 

All  eyes  were  directed  to  the  cardinal,  who,  pale  as  death, 
and  yet  maintaining  his  noble  carriage,  walked  along  at  ease. 

At  this  point  a  young  officer,  pale  like  the  cardinal,  like 
all  in  fact,  approached  the  great  ecclesiastic,  and  gently 
took  his  arm. 

"  Cardinal,"  said  he,  with  sorrowful  tone,  "  in  the  name 
of  the  king,  I  arrest  your  eminence.  I  am  ordered,  mon- 
seigneur,  to  conduct  you  to  the  Bastile." 


62  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"Come,  th°.n,  my  son,"  answered  the  cardinal,  quickly, 
making  his  way  slowly  through  the  throng,  which  respect- 
fully opened  to  let  him  pass — "  come,  since  the  king  com- 
mands it,  let  us  go  to  the  Bastile." 

He  passed  on  to  the  door.  But  when  the  officer  had 
opened  it,  he  turned  round  once  more  to  the  hall.  Stand- 
ing erect,  with  all  the  exalted  dignity  of  his  station  and 
his  person,  he  gave  the  amazed  company  his  blessing. 

Then  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and  with  pale  faces 
the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  court  dispersed  to  convey  the 
horrible  tidings  to  Versailles  and  Paris,  that  the  king  had 
caused  the  cardinal,  the  grand  almoner  of  France,  to  be 
arrested  in  his  official  robes,  and  that  it  was  the  will  of  the 
queen. 

And  the  farther  the  tidings  rolled  the  more  the  report 
enlarged,  like  an  avalanche  of  calumnies. 

In  the  evening,  Marat  thundered  in  his  club:  "Woe, 
woe  to  the  Austrian!  She  borrowed  money  of  the  Car- 
dinal de  Rohan  to  buy  jewels  for  herself — jewels  while  the 
people  hungered.  Now,  when  the  cardinal  wants  his 
money,  the  queen  denies  having  received  the  money,  and 
lets  the  head  of  the  Church  be  dragged  to  the  Bastile. 
Woe,  woe  to  the  Austrian!" 

"Woe,  woe  to  the  Austrian!"  muttered  brother  Simon, 
who  sat  near  the  platform  on  which  Marat  was.  "  We 
shall  not  forget  it  that  she  buys  her  jewels  for  millions  of 
francs,  while  we  have  not  a  sou  to  buy  bread  with.  Woe 
to  the  Austrian!" 

And  all  the  men  of  the  club  raised  their  fists  and  mut- 
tered with  him,  "  Woe  to  the  Austrian!" 


CHAPTER    V. 

ENEMIES    AND    FKIENDS. 

ALL  Paris  was  in  an  uproar  and  in  motion  in  all  the 
streets;  the  people  assembled  in  immense  masses  at  all  the 
squares,  and  listened  with  abated  breath  to  the  speakers 
who  had  taken  their  stand  amid  the  groups,  and  who  were 
confirming  the  astonished  hearers  respecting  the  great 
news  of  the  day. 


ENEMIES   AND   FRIENDS.  63 

"  The  Lord  Cardinal  de  Eohan,  the  grand  almoner  of 
the  king,"  cried  a  Franciscan  monk,  who  had  taken  his 
station  upon  a  curbstone,  at  the  corner  of  the  Tuileries 
and  the  great  Place  de  Carrousel — "  Cardinal  de  Rohan  has 
in  a  despotic  manner  been  deprived  of  his  rights  and  his 
freedom.  As  a  dignitary  of  the  Church,  he  is  not  under 
the  ordinary  jurisdiction,  and  only  the  Pope  is  the  right- 
ful lord  of  a  cardinal ;  only  before  the  Holy  Father  can  an 
accusation  be  brought  against  a  servant  of  the  Church. 
For  it  has  been  the  law  of  the  Church  for  centuries  that  it 
alone  has  the  power  to  punish  and  accuse  its  servants,  and 
no  one  has  ever  attempted  to  challenge  that  power.  But 
do  you  know  what  has  taken  place?  Cardinal  de  Eohan 
has  been  withdrawn  from  the  jurisdiction  of  his  rightful 
judges;  he  has  been  denied  an  ecclesiastical  tribunal,  and 
he  is  to  be  tried  before  Parliament  as  if  he  were  an  ordi- 
nary servant  of  the  king;  secular  judges  are  going  to  sit 
in  judgment  upon  this  great  church  dignitary,  and  to 
charge  him  with  a  crime,  when  no  crime  has  been  com- 
mitted! For  what  has  he  done,  the  grand  almoner  of 
France,  cardinal,  and  cousin  of  the  king?  A  lady,  whom 
he  believed  to  be  in  the  queen's  confidence,  had  told  him 
that  the  queen  wanted  to  procure  a  set  of  jewels,  which 
she  was  unfortunately  not  able  to  buy,  because  her  coffers, 
as  a  natural  result  of  her  well-known  extravagance,  were 
empty.  The  lady  indicated  to  the  lord  cardinal  that  the 
queen  would  be  delighted  if  he  would  advance  a  sum  suffi- 
cient to  buy  the  jewels  with,  and  in  his  name  she  would 
cause  the  costly  fabric  to  be  purchased.  The  cardinal,  all 
the  while  a  devoted  and  true  servant  of  the  king,  hastened 
to  gratify  the  desire  of  the  queen.  He  took  this  course 
with  wise  precaution,  in  order  that  the  queen,  whose 
violence  is  well  known,  should  not  apply  to  any  other 
member  of  tha  court,  and  still  further  compromise  the 
royal  honor.  And  say  yourselves,  my  noble  friends,  was  it 
not  much  better  that  it  should  be  the  lord  cardinal  who 
should  lend  money  to  the  queen,  than  Lord  Lauzun, 
Count  Coigny,  or  the  musical  Count  Vaudreuil,  the  special 
favorite  of  the  queen?  Was  it  not  better  for  him  to  make 
this  sacrifice  and  do  the  queen  this  great  favor?" 

"Certainly   it  was  better,"  cried  the  mob.     "The  lord 


64  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

cardinal  is  a  noble  man.  Long  live  Cardinal  de  Ro- 
han!" 

"Perish  the  Austrian,  perish  the  jewelled  queen!"  cried 
the  cobbler  Simon,  who  was  standing  amid  the  crowd,  and 
a  hundred  voices  muttered  after  him,  "Perish  the  Aus- 
trian!" 

"  Listen,  my  dear  people  of  Paris,  you  good-natured 
lambs,  whose  wool  is  plucked  off  that  the  Austrian  woman 
may  have  a  softer  bed,"  cried  a  shrieking  voice;  "hear 
what  has  occurred  to-day.  I  can  tell  you  accurately,  for  I 
have  just  come  from  Parliament,  and  a  good  friend  of  mine 
has  copied  for  me  the  address  with  which  the  king  is  going 
to  open  the  session  to-day." 

"  Read  it  to  us,"  cried  the  crowd.  "  Keep  quiet  there — 
keep  still  there !  We  want  to  hear  the  address.  Read  it 
to  us." 

"  I  will  do  it  gladly,  but  you  will  not  be  able  to  under- 
stand me,"  shrieked  the  voice.  "I  am  only  little  in  com- 
parison with  you,  as  every  one  is  little  who  opposes  himself 
to  the  highest  majesty  of  the  earth,  the  people." 

"Hear  that,"  cried  one  of  those  who  stood  nearest  to 
those  a  little  farther  away — "  hear  that,  he  calls  us  majes- 
ties! He  seems  to  be  an  excellent  gentleman,  and  he  does 
not  look  down  upon  us." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  wise  man  looking  down  upon 
the  prince  royal,  who  is  young,  fair,  and  strong?"  asked 
the  barking  voice. 

"He  is  right,  we  cannot  understand  him,"  cried  those 
who  stood  farthest  away,  pressing  forward.  "  What  did 
he  say?  He  must  repeat  his  words.  Lift  him  up  so  that 
we  all  may  hear  him." 

A  broad-shouldered,  gigantic  citizen,  in  good  clothing, 
and  with  an  open,  spirited  countenance,  and  a  bold,  de- 
fiant bearing,  pressed  through  the  crowd  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  speaker. 

"Come,  little  man,"  cried  he,  "I  will  raise  you  up  on 
my  shoulder,  and — but  see,  it  is  our  friend  Marat,  the  lit- 
tle man,  but  the  great  doctor!" 

"  And  you  truly,  you  are  my  friend  Santerre,  the  great 
man  and  the  greatest  of  doctors.  For  the  beer  which  you 
get  from  his  brewery  is  a  better  medicine  for  the  people 


ENEMIES   AND    FRIENDS.  65 

than  all  my  electuaries  can  be.  And  you,  my  worthy 
friend  of  the  hop-pole,  will  you  condescend  to  take  the  ugly 
monkey  Marat  on  your  shoulders,  that  he  may  tell  the 
people  the  great  news  of  the  day?" 

Instead  of  answering,  the  brewer  Santerre  seized  the  lit- 
tle crooked  man  by  both  arms,  swung  him  up  with  giant 
strength,  and  set  him  on  his  shoulders. 

The  people,  delighted  with  the  dexterity  and  strength  of 
the  herculean  man,  broke  into  a  loud  cheer,  and  applauded 
the  brewer,  whom  all  knew,  and  who  was  a  popular  person- 
age in  the  city.  But  Marat,  too,  the  horse-doctor  of  the 
Count  d'Artois,  as  he  called  himself  derisively,  the  doctor 
of  poverty  and  misfortune,  as  his  flatterers  termed  him — 
Marat,  too,  was  known  to  many  in  the  throng,  and  after 
Santerre  had  been  applauded,  they  saluted  Marat  with  a 
loud  vivat,  and  with  boisterous  clapping  of  hands. 

He  turned  his  distorted,  ugly  visage  toward  the  Tuileries, 
whose  massive  proportions  towered  up  above  the  lofty  trees 
of  the  gardens,  and  with  a  threatening  gesture  shook  his 
fist  at  the  royal  palace. 

"Have  you  heard  it,  you  proud  gods  of  the  earth? 
Have  you  heard  the  sacred  thunder  mutterings  of  majesty? 
Are  you  not  startled  from  the  sleep  of  your  vice,  and  com- 
pelled to  fall  upon  your  knees  and  pray,  as  poor  sinners  do 
before  their  judgment?  But  no.  You  do  not  see  and  you 
do  not  hear.  Your  ears  are  deaf  and  your  hearts  are 
sealed !  Behind  the  lofty  walls  of  Versailles,  which  a  most 
vicious  king  erected  for  his  menus  plaisirs,  there  you  in- 
dulge in  your  lusts,  and  shut  out  the  voice  of  truth,  which 
would  speak  to  you  here  in  Paris  from  the  hallowed  lips  of 
the  people." 

"Long  live  Marat!"  cried  the  cobbler  Simon,  who, 
drawn  by  the  shouting,  had  left  the  Franciscan,  and  joined 
the  throng  in  whose  midst  stood  Santerre,  with  Marat  on 
his  shoulders.  "  Long  live  the  great  friend  of  the  people ! 
Long  live  Marat!" 

"Long  live  Marat!"  cried  and  muttered  the  people. 
"  Marat  heals  the  people  when  the  gentry  have  made  them 
sick,  and  taken  the  very  marrow  from  their  bones.  Marat 
is  no  'gentleman.'  Marat  does  not  look  down  upon  the 
people!" 


66  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

"  My  friends,  I  repeat  to  you  what  I  said  before," 
shrieked  Marat.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  wise  man  look- 
ing down  upon  the  crown  prince,  and  thinking  more  of 
the  king,  who  is  old,  unnerved  by  his  vices,  and  blase! 
You,  the  people,  you  are  the  crown  prince  of  France,  and 
if  you,  at  last,  in  your  righteous  and  noble  indignation, 
tread  the  tyrant  under  your  feet,  then  the  young  prince, 
the  people,  will  rule  over  France,  and  the  beautiful  words 
of  the  Bible  will  be  fulfilled:  'There  shall  be  one  fold  and 
one  shepherd.'  I  have  taken  this  improvised  throne  on 
the  shoulders  of  a  noble  citizen  only  to  tell  you  of  an  im- 
propriety which  the  Queen  of  France  has  committed,  and 
of  the  new  usurpation  with  which  she  treads  our  laws  under 
her  feet,  not  tired  out  with  opera-house  balls  and  prome- 
nades by  night.  I  will  read  you  the  address  which  the 
king  sent  to  Parliament  to-day,  and  with  which  the  hear- 
ing of  Cardinal  de  Eohan's  case  is  to  begin.  Will  the  peo- 
ple hear  it?" 

"  Yes,  we  will  hear  it,"  was  the  cry  from  all  sides. 
"  Read  us  the  address." 

Marat  drew  a  dirty  piece  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and 
began  to  read  with  a  loud,  barking  voice : 

"  Louis,  by  the  grace  of  God,  King  of  France  and  Na- 
varre, to  our  dear  and  faithful  counsellors,  members  of  the 
court  of  our  Parliament,  greeting : 

"  It  has  come  to  our  knowledge  that  parties  named  Boh- 
mer  and  Bassenge  have,  without  the  knowledge  of  the 
queen,  our  much-loved  consort  and  spouse,  sold  a  diamond 
necklace,  valued  at  one  million  six  hundred  thousand 
francs,  to  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  who  stated  to  them  that  he 
was  acting  in  the  matter  under  the  queen's  instructions. 
Papers  were  laid  before  them  which  they  considered  as  ap- 
proved and  subscribed  by  the  queen.  After  the  said  Boh- 
mer  and  Bassenge  had  delivered  the  said  necklace  to  the 
said  cardinal,  and  had  not  received  the  first  payment,  they 
applied  to  the  queen  herself.  We  have  beheld,  not  with- 
out righteous  indignation,  the  eminent  name,  which  in 
many  ways  is  so  dear  to  us,  lightly  spoken  of,  and  denied 
the  respect  which  is  due  to  the  royal  majesty.  We  have 
thought  that  it  pertains  to  the  jurisdiction  of  our  court  to 
give  a  hearing  to  the  said  cardinal,  and  in  view  of  the 


ENEMIES   AND   FRIENDS.  67 

declaration  which  he  has  made  before  us,  that  he  was  de- 
ceived by  a  woman  named  Lamotte-Valois,  we  have  held 
it  necessary  to  secure  his  person,  as  well  as  that  of  Madame 
Valois,  in  order  to  bring  all  the  parties  to  light  who  have 
been  the  instigators  or  abettors  of  such  a  plot.  It  is  our 
will,  therefore,  that  that  matter  come  before  the  high 
court  of  Parliament,  and  that  it  be  duly  tried  and  judg- 
ment given." 

"  There  you  have  this  fine  message,"  cried  Marat;  "  there 
you  have  the  web  of  his,  which  this  Austrian  woman  has 
woven  around  us.  For  it  is  she  who  has  sent  this  message 
to  Parliament.  You  know  well  that  we  have  no  longer  a 
King  of  France,  but  that  all  France  is  only  the  Trianon  of 
the  Austrian.  It  stands  on  all  our  houses,  written  over 
all  the  doors  of  government  buildings,  'Zte  par  la  reine  /' 
The  Austrian  woman  is  the  Queen  of  France,  and  the  good- 
natured  king  only  writes  what  she  dictates  to  him.  She 
says  in  this  paper  that  these  precautions  have  been  taken 
in  order  that  she  may  learn  who  are  the  persons  who  have 
joined  in  the  attack  upon  her  distinguished  and  much- 
loved  person.  Who,  then,  is  the  abettor  of  Madame 
Valois?  Who  has  received  the  diamonds  from  the  car- 
dinal, through  the  instrumentality  of  Madame  Valois?  I 
assert,  it  is  the  queen  who  has  done  it.  She  received  the 
jewels,  and  now  she  denies  the  whole  story.  And  now  this 
woman  Larnotte-Valois  must  draw  the  hot  chestnuts  out 
from  the  ashes.  You  know  this;  so  it  always  is!  Kings 
may  go  unpunished,  they  always  have  a  bete  de  souffrance, 
which  has  to  bear  their  burdens.  But  now  that  a  car- 
dinal, the  grand  almoner  of  France,  is  compelled  to  be- 
come the  bete  de  souffrance  for  this  Austrian  woman,  must 
show  you,  my  friends,  that  her  arrogance  has  reached  its 
highest  point.  She  has  trodden  modesty  and  morals  under 
foot,  and  now  she  will  tread  the  Church  under  foot  also." 

"Be  still!"  was  the  cry  on  all  sides.  "  The  carbineers 
and  gendarmes  are  coming.  Be  still,  Marat,  be  still! 
You  must  not  be  arrested.  We  do  not  want  all  our  friends 
to  be  taken  to  the  Bastile." 

And  really  just  at  that  instant,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
street  that  led  to  the  square  on  the  side  of  the  Tuileries, 
appeared  a  division  of  carbineers,  advancing  at  great  speed. 


68  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Marat  jumped  with  the  speed  of  a  cat  down  from  the 
huge  form  of  the  brewer.  The  crowd  opened  and  made 
way  for  him,  and  before  the  carbineers  had  approached, 
Marat  had  disappeared. 

With  this  day  began  the  investigations  respecting  the 
necklace  which  Messrs.  Bohmer  and  Bassenge  had  wanted 
to  sell  the  queen  through  the  agency  of  Cardinal  Eohan. 
The  latter  was  still  a  prisoner  in  the  Bastile.  He  was 
treated  with  all  the  respect  due  to  his  rank.  He  had  a 
whole  suite  of  apartments  assigned  to  him ;  he  was  allowed 
to  retain  the  service  of  both  his  chamberlains,  and  at  times 
was  permitted  to  see  and  converse  with  his  relatives, 
although,  it  is  true,  in  the  presence  of  the  governor  of  the 
Bastile.  But  Foulon  was  a  very  pious  Catholic,  and  kept 
a  respectful  distance  from  the  lord  cardinal,  who  never 
failed  on  such  occasions  to  give  him  his  blessing.  In  the 
many  hearings  which  the  cardinal  had  to  undergo,  the 
president  of  the  committee  of  investigation  treated  him 
with  extreme  consideration,  and  if  the  cardinal  felt  him- 
self wearied,  the  sitting  was  postponed  till  another  day. 
Moreover,  at  these  hearings  the  defender  of  the  cardinal 
could  take  part,  in  order  to  summon  those  witnesses  or 
accused  persons  who  could  contribute  to  the  release  of  the 
cardinal,  and  show  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  a 
deeply-laid  plot,  and  had  committed  no  other  wrong  than 
that  of  being  too  zealous  in  the  service  of  the  queen. 

News  spread  abroad  of  numerous  arrests  occurring  in 
Paris.  It  had  been  known  from  the  royal  decree  that  the 
Countess  Lamotte-Valois  had  likewise  been  arrested  and 
imprisoned  in  the  Bastile;  but  people  were  anxious  to 
learn  decisively  whether  Count  Cagliostro,  the  wonder- 
doctor,  had  been  seized.  The  story  ran  that  a  young 
woman  in  Brussels,  who  had  been  involved  in  the  affair, 
and  who  had  an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  the  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette,  had  been  arrested,  and  brought  to  Paris 
for  confinement  in  the  Bastile. 

All  Paris,  all  France  watched  this  contest  with  eager  in- 
terest, which,  after  many  months,  was  still  far  from  a  con- 
clusion, and  respecting  which  so  much  could  be  said. 

The  friends  of  the  queen  asserted  that  her  majesty  was 
completely  innocent;  that  she  had  never  spoken  to  the 


ENEMIES    AND    FEIENDS.  69 

Countess  Lamotfce-Valois,  and  only  once  through  her 
chamberlain.  Weber  had  never  sent  her  any  assistance. 
But  these  friends  of  the  queen  were  not  numerous,  and 
their  number  diminished  every  day. 

The  king  had  seen  the  necessity  of  making  great  reduc- 
tions in  the  cost  of  maintaining  his  establishment,  and  in 
the  government  of  the  realm.  France  had  had  during  the 
last  years  poor  harvests.  The  people  were  suffering  from 
a  want  of  the  bare  necessities  of  life.  The  taxes  could  not 
be  collected.  A  reform  must  be  introduced,  and  those 
who  before  had  rejoiced  in  a  superfluity  of  royal  gifts  had 
to  be  contented  with  a  diminution  of  them. 

It  had  been  the  queen  who  allowed  the  tokens  of  royal 
favor  to  pour  upon  her  friends,  her  companions  in  Tri- 
anon, like  a  golden  rain.  She  had  at  the  outset  done  this 
out  of  a  hearty  love  for  them.  It  was  so  sweet  to  cause 
those  to  rejoice  whom  she  loved ;  so  pleasant  to  see  that 
charming  smile  upon  the  countenance  of  the  Duchess  de 
Polignac — that  smile  which  only  appeared  when  she  had 
succeeded  in  making  others  happy.  For  herself  the  duch- 
ess never  asked  a  favor ;  her  royal  friend  could  only,  after 
a  long  struggle  and  threatening  her  with  her  displeasure, 
induce  her  to  take  the  gifts  which  were  offered  out  of  a 
really  loving  heart. 

But  behind  the  Duchess  Diana  stood  her  brother  and 
sister-in-law,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  de  Polignac,  who  were 
ambitious,  proud,  and  avaricious;  behind  the  Duchess 
Diana  stood  the  three  favorites  of  the  royal  society  in  Tri- 
anon— Lords  Vaudreuil,  Besenval,  D'Adhemar — who  de- 
sired embassies,  ministerial  posts,  orders,  and  other  tokens 
of  honor. 

Diana  de  Polignac  was  the  channel  through  whom  all 
these  addressed  themselves  to  the  queen ;  she  was  the  loved 
friend  who  asked  whether  the  queen  could  not  grant  their 
demands.  Louis  granted  all  the  requests  to  the  queen, 
and  Marie  Antoinette  then  went  to  her  loved  friend 
Diana,  in  order  to  gratify  her  wishes,  to  receive  a  kiss,  and 
to  be  rewarded  with  a  smile. 

The  great  noble  families  saw  with  envy  and  displeasure 
this  supremacy  of  the  Polignacs  and  the  favorites  of  Tri- 
anon. They  withdrew  from  the  court;  gave  the  "Queen 


70  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

of  Trianon"  over  to  her  special  friends  and  their  citizen 
pleasures  and  sports,  which,  as  they  asserted,  were  not  be- 
coming to  the  great  nobility.  They  gave  the  king  over 
to  his  wife  who  ruled  through  him,  and  who,  in  turn,  was 
governed  by  the  Polignacs  and  the  other  favorites.  To 
them  and  to  their  friends  belonged  all  places,  all  honors; 
to  them  all  applied  who  wanted  to  gain  any  thing  for  the 
court,  and  even  they  who  wanted  to  get  justice  done  them. 

Around  the  royal  pair  there  was  nothing  but  intrigues, 
cabals,  envy,  and  hostility.  Every  one  wanted  to  be  first 
in  the  favor  of  the  queen,  in  order  to  gain  influence  and 
consideration;  every  one  wanted  to  cast  suspicion  on  the 
one  who  was  next  to  him,  in  order  to  supplant  him  in  the 
favor  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

The  fair  days  of  fortune  and  peace,  of  which  the  queen 
dreamed  in  her  charming  country  home,  thinking  that  her 
realizations  were  met  when  the  sun  had  scarcely  risen  upon 
them,  were  gone.  Trianon  was  still  there,  and  the  happy 
peasant-girl  of  Trianon  had  been  unchanged  in  heart;  but 
those  to  whom  she  had  given  her  heart,  those  who  had 
joined  in  her  harmless  amusement  in  her  village  there, 
were  changed !  They  had  cast  aside  the  idyllic  masks  with 
which  the  good-natured  and  confiding  queen  had  deceived 
herself.  They  were  no  longer  friends,  no  longer  devoted 
servants ;  they  were  mere  place-hunters,  intriguers,  flatter- 
ers, not  acting  out  of  love,  but  out  of  selfishness. 

Yet  the  queen  would  not  believe  this ;  she  continued  to 
be  the  tender  friend  of  her  friends,  trusted  them,  depended 
upon  their  love,  was  happy  in  their  neighborhood,  and  let 
herself  be  led  by  them  just  as  the  king  let  himself  be  led 
by  her. 

They  set  ministers  aside,  appointed  new  ones,  placed 
their  favorites  in  places  of  power,  and  drove  their  oppo- 
nents into  obscurity. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  queen  began  to  see  that 
she  was  not  the  ruler  but  the  ruled, — when  she  saw  that 
she  was  not  acting  out  her  own  will,  but  was  tyrannized 
over  by  those  who  had  been  made  powerful  through  her 
favor. 

"  I  have  been  compelled  to  take  part  in  political  affairs," 
said  she,  "  because  the  king,  in  his  noble,  good-humored 


ENEMIES   AND   FEIENDS.  71 

way,  has  too  little  confidence  in  himself,  and,  out  of  his 
self-distrust,  lets  himself  be  controlled  by  the  opinions  of 
others.  And  so  it  is  best  that  I  should  be  his  first  confi- 
dante, and  that  he  should  take  me  to  be  his  chief  adviser, 
for  his  interests  are  mine,  and  these  children  are  mine, 
and  surely  no  one  can  speak  more  truly  and  honestly  to 
the  King  of  France  than  his  queen,  his  wife,  the  mother 
of  his  children!  And  so  if  the  king  is  not  perfectly  in- 
dependent, and  feels  himself  too  weak  to  stand  alone,  and 
independently  to  exert  power,  he  ought  to  rest  on  me;  I 
will  bear  a  part  in  his  government,  his  business,  that  at 
any  rate  they  who  control  be  not  my  opponents,  my 
enemies!" 

For  a  while  she  yielded  to  her  friends  and  favorites  who 
wanted  to  stand  in  the  same  relation  to  the  queen  that  she 
did  to  the  king — she  yielded,  not  like  Louis,  from  weak- 
ness, but  from  the  very  power  of  her  love  for  them. 

She  yielded  at  the  time  when  Diana  de  Polignac,  urged 
by  her  brother-in-law,  Polignac,  and  by  Lord  Besenval, 
conjured  the  queen  to  nominate  Lord  Calonne  to  be  gen- 
eral comptroller  of  the  finances.  She  yielded,  and  Ca- 
lonne, the  flatterer,  the  courtier  of  Polignac,  received  the 
important  appointment,  although  Marie  Antoinette  ex- 
perienced twinges  of  conscience  for  it,  and  did  not  trust 
the  man  whom  she  herself  advanced  to  this  high  place. 
Public  opinion,  meanwhile,  gave  out  that  Lord  Calonne 
was  a  favorite  of  the  queen ;  and,  while  she  bore  him  no 
special  favor,  and  considered  his  appointment  as  a  mis- 
fortune to  France,  she  who  herself  promoted  him  became 
the  object  of  public  indignation. 

Meanwhile  the  nomination  of  Lord  Calonne  was  to  be 
productive  of  real  good.  It  gave  rise  to  the  publication 
of  a  host  of  libels  and  pamphlets  which  discussed  the 
financial  condition  of  France,  and,  in  biting  and  scornful 
words,  in  the  language  of  sadness  and  despair,  developed 
the  need  and  the  misfortune  of  the  land.  The  king  gave 
the  chief  minister  of  police  strict  injunctions  to  send  him 
all  these  ephemeral  publications.  He  wanted  to  read 
them  all,  wanted  to  find  the  kernel  of  wheat  which  each 
contained,  and,  from  his  enemies,  who  assuredly  would  not 
flatter,  he  wanted  to  learn  how  to  be  a  good  king.  And 


72  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

the  first  of  his  cares  he  saw  to  be  a  frugal  king,  and  to 
limit  his  household  expenses. 

This  time  he  acted  independently;  he  asked  no  one's 
counsel,  not  even  the  queen's.  As  his  own  unconstrained 
act,  he  ordered  a  diminution  of  the  court  luxury,  and  a 
limitation  of  the  great  pensions  which  were  paid  to  favor- 
ites. The  great  stable  of  the  king  must  be  reduced,  the 
chief  directorship  of  the  post  bureau  must  be  abolished, 
the  high  salary  of  the  governess  of  the  royal  children  as 
well  as  that  of  the  maid  of  honor  of  Madame  Elizabeth, 
sister  of  the  king,  must  be  reduced. 

And  who  were  the  ones  affected  by  this?  Chiefly  the 
Polignac  family.  The  Duke  de  Polignac  was  director  of 
the  royal  mews,  and  next  to  him  the  Duke  de  Coigny. 
The  Duke  de  Polignac  was  also  chief  director  of  the  post 
department.  His  wife,  Diana  de  Polignac,  was  also  maid 
of  honor  to  Madame  Elizabeth,  and  Julia  de  Polignac  was 
governess  of  the  children  of  France. 

They  would  not  believe  it ;  they  held  it  impossible  that 
so  unheard-of  a  thing  should  happen,  that  their  income 
should  be  reduced.  The  whole  circle  of  intimate  friends 
resorted  to  Trianon,  to  have  an  interview  with  the  queen, 
to  receive  from  her  the  assurance  that  she  would  not  toler- 
ate such  a  robbing  of  her  friends,  and  that  she  would  in- 
duce the  king  to  take  back  his  commands. 

The  queen,  however,  for  the  first  time,  made  a  stand 
against  her  friends. 

"It  is  the  will  of  the  king,"  said  she,  "and  I  am  too 
happy  that  the  king  has  a  will,  to  dare  opposing  it.  May 
the  king  reign!  It  is  his  duty  and  his  right,  as  it  is  the 
duty  and  right  of  all  his  subjects  to  conform  to  his  wish 
and  be  subject  to  his  will." 

"But,"  cried  Lord  Besenval,  "it  is  horrible  to  live  in 
a  country  where  one  is  not  sure  but  he  may  lose  to- 
morrow what  he  holds  to-day ;  down  to  this  time  that  has 
always  been  the  Turkish  fashion."  * 

The  queen  trembled  and  raised  her  great  eyes  with  a 
look  full  of  astonishment  ar-d  pain  to  Besenval,  then  to 
the  other  friends;  she  read  upon  all  faces  alienation  and 
unkindly  feeling.  The  mask  of  devoted  courtiers  and  true 

*  His  very  words.     See  Qoncourt's  "Hlstoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  121. 


ENEMIES    AND    FRIENDS.  73 

servants  had  for  the  first  time  fallen  from  their  faces,  and 
Marie  Antoinette  discovered  these  all  at  once  wholly  es- 
tranged and  unknown  countenances;  eyes  without  the 
beam  of  friendship,  lips  without  the  smile  of  devotion. 

The  queen  sought  to  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  wounded  with  a  dagger. 
She  felt  as  if  she  must  cry  aloud  with  pain  and  grief.  But 
she  commanded  herself  and  only  gave  utterance  to  a  faint 
sigh. 

"  You  are  not  the  only  ones  who  will  lose,  my  friends," 
said  she,  gently.  "  The  king  is  a  loser,  too ;  for  if  he 
gives  up  the  great  stables,  he  sacrifices  to  the  common  good 
his  horses,  his  equipages,  and,  above  all,  his  true  servants. 
We  must  all  learn  to  put  up  with  limitations  and  a  re- 
duction of  outlay.  But  we  can  still  remain  good  friends, 
and  here  in  Trianon  pass  many  pleasant  days  with  one 
another  in  harmless  gayety  and  happy  contentment. 
Come,  my  friends,  let  us  forget  these  cares  and  these  con- 
straints; let  us,  despite  all  these  things,  be  merry  and 
glad.  Duke  de  Coigny,  you  have  been  for  a  week  my 
debtor  in  billiards,  to-day  you  must  make  it  up.  Come, 
my  friends,  let  us  go  into  the  billiard-room." 

And  the  queen,  who  had  found  her  gayety  again,  went 
laughing  in  advance  of  her  friends  into  the  next  apart- 
ment, where  the  billiard-table  stood.  She  took  up  her 
cue,  and,  brandishing  it  like  a  sceptre,  cried,  "  Now,  my 
friends,  away  with  care — " 

She  ceased,  for  as  she  looked  around  her  she  saw  that 
her  friends  had  not  obeyed  her  call.  Only  the  Duke  de 
Coigny,  whom  she  had  specially  summoned,  had  followed 
the  queen  into  the  billiard-room. 

A  flash  of  anger  shot  from  the  eyes  of  the  queen. 

"  How!"  cried  she,  aloud,  "  did  my  companions  not  hear 
that  I  commanded  them  to  follow  me  hither?" 

"Your  majesty,"  answered  the  Duke  de  Coigny,  peev- 
ishly, "  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  have  probably  recalled  the 
fact  that  your  majesty  once  made  it  a  rule  here  in  Trianon 
that  every  one  should  do  as  he  pleases,  and  your  majesty  sees 
that  they  hold  more  strictly  to  the  laws  than  others  do." 

"My  lord,"  sighed  the  queen,  "do  you  bring  reproaches 
against  me  too?  Are  you  also  discontented?" 


74  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"And  why  should  I  be  contented,  your  majesty?"  asked 
the  duke,  with  choler.  "  I  am  deprived  of  a  post  which 
hitherto  has  been  held  for  life,  and  does  your  majesty  de- 
sire that  I  should  be  contented?  No,  I  am  not  contented. 
No,  I  do  as  the  others  do.  I  am  full  of  anger  and  pain  to 
see  that  nothing  is  secure  more,  that  nothing  is  stable 
more,  that  one  can  rely  upon  nothing  more — not  even  upon 
the  word  of  kings." 

"My  lord  duke,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  with  flashing 
anger,  "  you  go  too  far,  you  forget  that  you  are  speaking 
to  your  queen." 

"Madame,"  cried  he,  still  louder,  "here  in  Trianon 
there  is  no  queen,  there  are  no  subjects!  You  yourself 
have  said  it,  and  I  at  least  will  hold  to  your  words,  even  if 
you  yourself  do  not.  Let  us  play  billiards,  madame.  I 
am  at  your  service." 

And  while  the  Duke  de  Coigny  said  this,  he  seized  with 
an  angry  movement  the  billiard-cue  of  the  queen.  It  was 
a  present  which  Marie  Antoinette  had  received  from  her 
brother,  the  Emperor  Joseph.  It  was  made  of  a  single 
rhinoceros  skin,  and  was  adorned  with  golden  knobs.  The 
king  had  a  great  regard  for  it,  and  no  one  before  had  ever 
ventured  to  use  it  excepting  her  alone. 

"Give  it  to  me,  Coigny,"  said  she,  earnestly.  "You 
deceive  yourself,  that  is  not  your  billiard-cue,  that  is 
mine." 

"Madame,"  cried  he,  angrily,  "what  is  mine  is  taken 
from  me,  and  why  should  I  not  take  what  is  not  mine? 
It  seems  as  if  this  were  the  latest  fashion,  to  do  what  one 
pleases  with  the  property  of  others;  I  shall  hasten  to  have 
a  share  in  this  fashion,  even  were  it  only  to  show  that 
I  have  learned  something  from  your  majesty.  Let  us 
begin." 

Trembling  with  anger  and  excitement,  he  took  two 
balls,  laid  them  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  gave  the 
stroke.  But  it  was  so  passionately  given,  and  in  such 
rage,  that  the  cue  glided  by  the  balls  and  struck  so  strongly 
against  the  raised  rim  of  the  table  that  it  broke. 

The  queen  uttered  an  exclamation  of  indignation,  and, 
raising  the  hand,  pointed  with  a  commanding  gesture  to 
the  door. 


THE    TRIAL.  75 

"My  Lord  Duke  de  Coigny,"  said  she,  proudly,  "I  re- 
lease you  from  the  duty  of  ever  coming  again  to  Trianon. 
You  are  dismissed." 

The  duke,  trembling  with  anger,  muttering  a  few  unintel- 
ligible words,  made  a  slight,  careless  obeisance  to  the 
queen,  and  left  the  billiard-hall  with  a  quick  step.* 

Marie  Antoinette  looked  after  him  with  a  long  and 
pained  look.  Then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  she  took  up  the 
bits  of  the  broken  cue  and  went  into  her  little  porcelain 
cabinet,  in  order  to  gain  rest  and  self-command  in  solitude 
and  stillness. 

Reaching  that  place,  and  now  sure  that  no  one  could 
observe  her,  Marie  Antoinette  sank  with  a  deep  sigh  into 
an  arm-chair,  and  the  long-restrained  tears  started  from 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,"  sighed  she,  sadly,  "they  will  destroy  every  thing 
I  have,  every  thing — my  confidence,  my  spirit,  my  heart 
itself.  They  will  leave  me  nothing  but  pain  and  misfor- 
tune, and  not  one  of  them  whom  I  till  now  have  held  to 
be  my  friends,  will  share  it  with  me." 


CHAPTEE    VI. 

THE   TRIAL. 

FOR  a  whole  year  the  preparation  for  the  trial  had 
lasted,  and  to-day,  the  31st  of  August,  1786,  the  matter 
would  be  decided.  The  friends  and  relatives  of  the  car- 
dinal had  had  time  to  manipulate  not  only  public  opinion, 
but  also  to  win  over  the  judges,  the  members  of  Parlia- 
ment, to  the  cause  of  the  cardinal,  and  to  prejudice  them 
against  the  queen.  All  the  enemies  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
the  legitimists  even,  who  saw  their  old  rights  of  nobility 
encroached  upon  by  the  preference  given  to  the  Polignacs 
and  other  families  which  had  sprung  from  obscurity ;  the 
party  of  the  royal  princes  and  princesses,  whom  Marie 
Antoinette  had  always  offended,  first  because  she  was  an 
Austrian,  and  later  because  she  had  allowed  herself  to  win 
the  love  of  the  king;  the  men  of  the  agitation  and  freedom 

*This  scene  is  historical.    See  "Memoires  de  Madame  de  Campan,"  vol.  ii. 
6 


76  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

party,  who  thundered  in  their  clubs  against  the  realm,  and 
held  it  to  be  their  sacred  duty  to  destroy  the  nimbus  which 
had  hitherto  enveloped  the  throne,  and  to  show  to  the 
hungering  people  that  the  queen  who  lived  in  luxury  was 
nothing  more  than  a  light-minded,  voluptuous  woman, — 
all  these  enemies  of  the  queen  had  had  time  to  gain  over 
public  opinion  and  the  judges.  The  trial  had  been  a  wel- 
come opportunity  to  all  to  give  free  play  to  their  revenge, 
their  indignation,  and  their  hate.  The  family  of  the  car- 
dinal, sorely  touched  by  the  degradation  which  had  come 
*  upon  them  all  in  their  head,  would,  at  the  least,  see  the 
queen  compromised  with  the  cardinal,  and  if  the  latter 
should  really  come  out  from  the  trial  as  the  deceived  and 
duped  one,  Marie  Antoinette  should,  nevertheless,  share 
in  the  stain. 

The  Rohan  family  and  their  friends  set  therefore  all 
means  in  motion,  in  order  to  win  over  public  opinion  and 
the  judges.  To  this  end  they  visited  the  members  of  Par- 
liament, brought  presents  to  those  of  them  who  were  will- 
ing to  receive  them,  made  use  of  mercenary  authors  to 
hurl  libellous  pamphlets  at  the  queen,  published  brochures 
which,  in  dignified  language,  defended  the  cardinal  in 
advance,  and  exhibited  him  as  the  victim  of  his  devotion 
and  love  to  the  royal  family.  Everybody  read  these 
pamphlets ;  and  when  at  last  the  day  of  decision  came,  pub- 
lic opinion  had  already  declared  itself  in  favor  of  the  car- 
dinal and  against  the  queen. 

On  the  31st  of  August,  1786,  as  already  said,  the  trial 
so  long  in  preparation  was  to  be  decided.  The  night  be- 
fore, the  cardinal  had  been  transferred  from  the  Bastile  to 
the  prison,  as  had  also  the  other  prisoners  who  were  in- 
volved in  the  case. 

At  early  dawn  the  whole  square  before  the  prison  was 
full  of  men,  and  the  dependants  of  Rohan  and  the  Agita- 
tors of  Freedom,  as  Marat  and  his  companions  called 
themselves,  were  active  here  as  ever  to  turn  the  feeling  of 
the  people  against  the  queen. 

In  the  court-house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  square, 
meanwhile,  the  great  drama  of  the  trial  had  begun.  The 
members  of  Parliament,  the  judges  in  the  case,  sat  in  their 
flowing  black  garments,  in  long  rows  before  the  green 


THE    TRIAL.  77 

table,  and  their  serious,  sad  faces  and  sympathetic  looks, 
were  all  directed  toward  the  cardinal,  Louis  de  Rohan. 
But  in  spite  of  the  danger  of  the  situation,  the  noble  face 
of  the  cardinal  was  completely  undisturbed,  and  his  bear- 
ing princely.  He  appeared  in  his  full  priestly  array,  sub- 
stituting in  place  of  the  purple-red  under-garment  one  of 
violet,  as  cardinals  do  when  they  appear  in  mourning. 
Over  this  he  wore  the  short  red  cloak,  and  displayed  all 
his  orders;  the  red  stockings,  the  silk  shoes  with  jewelled 
buckles,  completed  his  array.  While  entering,  he  raised 
his  hands  and  gave  his  priestly  blessing  to  those  who  should 
judge  him,  and  perhaps  condemn  him.  He  then,  in  sim- 
ple and  dignified  words,  spoke  as  follows : 

A  relative  of  his,  Madame  de  Boulainvillier,  had,  three 
years  before,  brought  a  young  woman  to  him,  and  re- 
quested him  to  maintain  her.  She  was  of  the  most  exalted 
lineage,  the  last  in  descent  from  the  earlier  kings  of 
France,  of  the  family  of  Valois.  She  called  herself  the 
Countess  of  Lamotte- Valois;  her  husband,  the  Count 
Lamotte,  was  the  royal  sub-lieutenant  in  some  little  garri- 
son city,  and  his  salary  was  not  able  to  support  them  ex- 
cept meagrely.  The  young  lady  was  beautiful,  intellectual, 
of  noble  manners,  and  it  was  natural  that  the  cardinal 
should  interest  himself  in  behalf  of  the  unfortunate  daugh- 
ter of  the  kings  of  France.  He  supported  her  for  a  while, 
and  after  many  exertions  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  pension 
of  fifteen  hundred  francs  from  King  Louis  XVI.,  in  behalf 
of  the  last  descendant  of  the  Valois  family.  Upon  this  the 
countess  went  herself  to  Versailles,  in  order  to  render 
thanks  in  person  for  this  favor.  She  returned  the  next 
day  to  Paris,  beaming  with  joy,  and  told  the  cardinal  that 
she  had  not  only  been  received  by  the  queen,  but  that 
Marie  Antoinette  had  been  exceedingly  gracious  to  her, 
and  had  requested  her  to  visit  her  often.  From  this  day 
on,  the  countess  had  naturally  gained  new  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  the  cardinal,  for  she  often  went  to  Versailles;  and 
from  the  accounts  of  her  visits  there,  when  she  returned, 
it  was  clear  that  she  stood  in  high  favor  with  the  queen. 
But  now,  unfortunately,  the  cardinal  found  himself  in  pre- 
cisely the  opposite  situation.  He  stood  in  extreme  dis- 
favor with  the  queen.  She  never  condescended  to  bestow 


78  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

a  glance  upon  him,  nor  a  word.  The  cardinal  was  for  a 
long  time  inconsolable  on  account  of  this,  and  sought  in 
vain  to  regain  the  favor  of  the  queen.  This  he  intrusted 
with  the  deepest  confidence  to  the  Countess  Lamotte- 
Valois,  and  she,  full  of  friendly  zeal,  had  undertaken  to 
speak  to  the  queen  in  his  behalf.  Some  days  later  she 
told  the  cardinal  that  she  had  fulfilled  her  promise ;  she 
had  painted  his  sadness  in  such  moving  words  that  the 
queen  appeared  to  be  very  much  affected,  and  had  told  the 
countess  that  she  would  pardon  all,  if  the  cardinal  would 
send  her  in  writing  an  apology  for  the  mortifications  which 
he  had  inflicted  upon  herself  and  her  mother  Maria 
Theresa.  The  cardinal,  of  course,  joyfully  consented  to 
this.  He  sent  to  the  countess  a  document  in  which  he 
humbly  begged  pardon  for  asking  the  Empress  Maria 
Theresa,  years  before,  when  Marie  Antoinette  was  yet 
Dauphiness  of  France,  and  he,  the  cardinal,  was  French 
ambassador  in  Vienna,  to  chide  her  daughter  on  account 
of  her  light  and  haughty  behavior,  and  to  charge  herself 
with  seeing  it  bettered.  This  was  the  only  offence  against 
the  queen  of  which  he  felt  himself  guilty,  and  for  this  he 
humbly  implored  forgiveness.  He  had,  at  the  same  time, 
begged  the  queen  for  an  audience,  that  he  might  pay  his 
respects  to  her,  and  on  bended  knee  ask  her  pardon. 
Some  days  after,  the  Countess  Lamotte-Valois  had  handed 
him  a  paper,  written  with  the  queen's  hand,  as  an  answer 
to  his  letter. 

The  president  here  interrupted  the  cardinal :  "  Are  you 
still  in  possession  of  this  document,  your  eminence?" 

The  cardinal  bowed.  "  I  have  always,  since  I  had  the 
fortune  to  receive  them,  carried  with  me  the  dear,  and  to 
me  invaluable,  letters  of  the  queen.  On  the  day  when  I 
was  arrested  in  Versailles,  they  lay  in  my  breast  coat- 
pocket.  It  was  my  fortune,  and  the  misfortune  of  those 
who,  after  I  had  been  carried  to  the  Bastile,  burst  into  my 
palace,  sealed  my  papers,  and  at  once  burned  what  dis- 
pleased them.  In  this  way  these  letters  escaped  the  auto- 
da-fe.  Here  is  the  first  letter  of  the  queen." 

He  drew  a  pocket-book  from  his  robe,  took  from  it  a 
small  folded  paper,  and  laid  it  upon  the  table  before  the 
president. 


THE   TRIAL.  79 

The  president  opened  it  and  read:  "I  have  received 
your  brief,  and  am  delighted  to  find  you  no  longer  culpa- 
ble ;  in  the  mean  while,  I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  give 
you  the  audience  which  you  ask.  As  soon,  however,  as 
circumstances  allow  me,  I  shall  inform  you;  till  then, 
silence.  MARIE  ANTOINETTE  OF  FRANCE."  * 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  arose  among  the  judges  after 
this  reading,  and  all  looks  were  directed  with  deep  sympa- 
thy to  the  cardinal,  who,  with  a  quiet,  modest  bearing, 
stood  over  against  them.  The  glances  of  the  president  of 
the  high  court,  directed  themselves,  after  he  had  read  the 
letter  and  laid  it  upon  the  green  table,  to  the  great  dig- 
nitary of  the  Church,  and  then  he  seemed  to  notice  for 
the  first  time  that  the  cardinal,  a  prince  and  grand  almoner 
of  the  King  of  France,  was  standing  like  a  common 
criminal. 

"  Give  the  lord  cardinal  an  arm-chair,"  he  ordered,  with 
a  loud  voice,  and  one  of  the  guards  ran  to  bring  one  of 
the  broad,  comfortable  chairs  of  the  judges,  which  was  just 
then  unoccupied,  and  carried  it  to  the  cardinal. 

Prince  Rohan  thanked  the  judges  with  a  slight  incli- 
nation of  his  proud  head,  and  sank  into  the  arm-chair. 
The  accused  and  the  judges  now  sat  on  the  same  seats,  and 
one  would  almost  have  suspected  that  the  cardinal,  in  his 
magnificent  costume',  with  his  noble,  lofty  bearing,  his 
peaceful,  passionless  face,  and  sitting  in  his  arm-chair, 
alone  and  separated  from  all  others,  was  himself  the  judge 
of  those  who,  in  their  dark  garments  and  troubled  and 
oppressed  spirits,  and  restless  mien,  were  sitting  opposite 
him. 

"Will  your  eminence  have  the  goodness  to  proceed?" 
humbly  asked  the  president  of  the  court,  after  a  pause. 

The  cardinal  nodded  as  the  sign  of  assent,  and  contin- 
ued his  narrative. 

This  letter  of  the  queen  naturally  filled  him  with  great 
delight,  particularly  as  he  had  a  personal  interview  with 
her  majesty  in  prospect,  and  he  had  implored  the  Count- 
ess Valois  all  the  more  to  procure  this  meeting,  because, 
in  spite  of  the  forgiveness  which  the  queen  had  given  to 
the  cardinal,  she  continued  on  all  oscasions,  where  he  had 

*Goncourt. — "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  143. 


80  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

the  happiness, to  be  in  her  presence,  to  treat  him  with  ex- 
treme disdain.  On  one  Sunday,  when  he  was  reading 
mass  before  their  majesties,  he  took  the  liberty  to  enter 
the  audience-room  and  to  address  the  queen.  Marie  An- 
toinette bestowed  upon  him  only  an  annihilating  look  of 
anger  and  scorn,  and  turned  her  back  upon  him,  saying, 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  loud  voice,  to  the  Duchess  of 
Polignac:  "What  a  shameless  act!  These  people  believe 
they  may  do  any  thing  if  they  wear  the  purple.  They  be- 
lieve they  may  rank  with  kings,  and  even  address  them." 
These  proud  and  cutting  words  had  naturally  deeply 
wounded  the  cardinal,  and,  for  the  first  time,  the  doubt 
was  suggested  to  him  whether,  in  the  end,  all  the  com- 
munications of  the  Countess  Valois,  even  the  letter  of  the 
queen,  might  not  prove  to  be  false,  for  it  appeared  to  him 
impossible  that  the  queen  could  be  secretly,  favorably  in- 
clined to  a  man  whom  she  openly  scorned.  In  his  anger 
he  said  so  to  the  Countess  Lamotte,  and  told  her  that  he 
should  hold  all  that  she  had  brought  him  from  the  queen 
to  be  false,  unless,  within  a  very  short  time,  she  could  pro- 
cure what  he  had  so  long  and  so  urgently  besought,  name- 
ly, an  audience  with  the  queen.  He  desired  this  audi- 
ence as  a  proof  that  Marie  Antoinette  was  really  changed, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  as  a  proof  that  the  Countess  Lamotte- 
Valois  had  told  him  the  truth.  The  countess  laughed  at 
his  distrust,  and  promised  to  try  all  the  arts  of  address 
with  the  queen,  in  order  to  gain  for  the  cardinal  the  de- 
sired audience.  The  latter,  who  thought  he  recognized  in 
the  beautiful  and  expressive  countenance  of  the  lady  in- 
nocence and  honorableness,  now  regretted  his  hasty  words, 
and  said  to  Madame  Lamotte,  that  in  case  the  queen  would 
really  grant  him  a  private  audience,  he  would  give  her  (the 
countess)  fifty  thousand  francs  as  a  sign  of  his  gratitude. 

A  murmur  of  applause  and  of  astonishment  rose  at  these 
words  from  the  spectators,  comprising  some  of  the  greatest 
noble  families  of  France,  the  Eohans,  the  Guemenes,  the 
Count  de  Vergennes,  and  all  the  most  powerful  enemies  of 
the  queen,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  this  occasion  in 
order  to  avenge  themselves  on  the  Austrian,  who  had  dared 
to  choose  her  friends  and  select  her  society,  not  in  accord- 
ance with  lineage,  but  as  her  own  pleasure  dictated. 


THE   TKIAL.  81 

The  president  of  the  court  did  not  consider  this  mur- 
mur of  applause  marked  enough  to  be  reprimanded,  and 
let  it  be  continued. 

"  And  did  the  Countess  Lamotte-Valois  procure  for  you 
this  audience?"  he  then  asked. 

Prince  Rohan  was  silent  a  moment,  his  face  grew  pale, 
his  features  assumed  for  the  first  time  a  troubled  expres- 
sion, and  the  painful  struggles  which  disturbed  his  soul 
could  be  seen  working  within  him. 

"May  it  please  this  noble  court,"  he  replied,  after  a 
pause,  with  feeling,  trembling  voice,  "  I  feel  at  this  mo- 
ment that,  beneath  the  robe  of  the  priest,  the  heart  of  the 
man  beats  yet.  It  is,  however,  for  every  man  a  wrong,  an 
unpardonable  wrong,  to  disclose  the  confidence  of  a  lady, 
and  to  reveal  to  the  open  light  of  day  the  favors  which 
have  been  granted  by  her.  But  I  must  take  this  crime 
upon  myself,  because  I  have  to  defend  the  honor  of  a 
priest,  even  of  a  dignitary  in  the  Church,  and  also  because 
I  do  not  dare  to  suffer  my  purple  to  be  soiled  with  even 
the  suspicion  of  a  lie,  or  an  act  of  falsehood.  It  may  be — •- 
and  I  fear  it  even  myself — it  may  be,  that  in  this  matter, 
I  myself  was  the  deceived  one,  but  I  dare  not  bring  sus- 
picion upon  my  tiara  that  I  was  the  deceiver,  and,  there- 
fore, I  have  to  meet  the  stern  necessity  of  disclosing  the 
secret  of  a  lady  and  a  queen." 

"Besides  this,"  said  the  president,  solemnly — "besides 
this,  your  eminence  may  graciously  consider,  in  presence 
of  the  authority  given  you  by  God,  all  the  tender  thoughts 
of  the  cardinal  must  be  silent.  The  duty  of  a  dignitary  of 
the  Church  commands  you  to  go  before  all  other  men  in 
setting  them  a  noble  example,  and  one  worthy  of  imita- 
tion. It  is  your  sacred  duty,  in  accordance  with  the  de- 
mands of  truth,  to  give  the  most  detailed  information 
regarding  every  thing  that  concerns  this  affair,  and  your 
eminence  will  have  the  goodness  to  remember  that  we  are 
the  secular  priests  of  God,  before  whom  every  accused  per- 
son must  confess  the  whole  truth  with  a  perfect  conscience." 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  President,"  said  the  cardinal,  with 
so  gentle  and  tremulous  a  voice,  that  you  might  hear  after 
it  a  faint  sob  from  some  deeply-veiled  ladies  who  sat  on 
the  spectators'  seats,  and  so  that  even  the  eyes  of  President 


\ 


82  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

de  1'Aigre  filled  with  tears — "  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent," repeated  the  cardinal,  breathing  more  freely. 
"  You  take  a  heavy  burden  from  my  heart,  and  your  wis- 
dom instructs  me  as  to  my  own  duty." 

The  president  blushed  with  pleasure  at  the  high  praises 
of  the  cardinal. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  take  the  liberty  of  repeating 
my  question,  did  the  Countess  Lamotte-Valois  succeed  in 
procuring  for  your  eminence  a  secret  audience  with  the 
nueen?" 

"She  did,"  replied  the  cardinal,  "she  did  procure  an 
interview  for  me." 

And  compelling  himself  to  a  quiet  manner,  he  went  on 
with  his  story:  The  Countess  de  Valois  came  to  him  after 
two  days  with  a  joyful  countenance,  and  brought  to  him 
the  request  to  accompany  the  Countess  Valois  two  days 
later  to  Versailles,  where,  in  the  garden,  in  a  place  in- 
dicated by  the  countess,  the  meeting  of  the  queen  and  the 
cardinal  should  take  place.  The  cardinal  was  to  put  on 
the  simple,  unpretending  dress  of  a  citizen  of  Paris,  a  blue 
cloth  coat,  a  round  hat,  and  high  leather  boots.  The- car- 
dinal, full  of  inexpressible  delight  at  this,  could,  notwith- 
standing, scarcely  believe  that  the  queen  would  show  him 
this  intoxicating  mark  of  her  favor;  upon  which  the 
Countess  Valois,  laughing,  showed  him  a  letter  of  the 
queen,  directed  to  her,  on  gold-bordered  paper,  and  signed 
like  the  note  which  he  had  received  before — "  Marie  An- 
toinette of  France."  In  this  note  the  queen  requested  her 
dear  friend  to  go  carefully  to  work  to  warn  the  cardinal  to 
speak  softly  during  the  interview,  because  there  were  ears 
lurking  in  the  neighborhood,  and  not  to  come  out  from 
the  thicket  till  the  queen  should  give  a  sign. 

After  reading  this  letter,  the  cardinal  had  no  more 
doubts,  but  surrendered  himself  completely  to  his  joy,  his 
impatience,  and  longed  for  the  appointed  hour  to  arrive. 
At  last  this  hour  came,  and,  in  company  with  the  count- 
ess, the  cardinal,  arrayed  in  the  appointed  dress,  repaired 
in  a  simple  hired  carriage  to  Versailles.  The  countess  led 
him  to  the  terrace  of  the  palace,  where  she  directed  the 
cardinal  to  hide  behind  a  clump  of  laurel-trees,  and  then 
left  him,  in  order  to  inform  the  queen,  who  walked  every 


THE   TRIAL.  83 

evening  in  the  park,  in  company  with  the  Count  and 
Countess  d'Artois,  of  the  presence  of  the  cardinal,  and  to 
conduct  her  to  him.  The  latter  now  remained  alone,  and, 
with  loud-beating  heart,  listened  to  every  sound,  and, 
moving  gently  around,  looked  down  the  long  alley  which 
ran  between  the  two  fountains,  in  order  to  catch  sight  of 
the  approach  of  the  queen.  It  was  a  delightful  evening; 
the  full  moon  shone  in  golden  clearness  from  the  deep-blue 
sky,  and  illuminated  all  the  objects  in  the  neighborhood 
with  a  light  like  that  of  day.  It  now  disclosed  a  tall, 
noble  figure,  clad  in  a  dark-red  robe,  and  with  large  blue 
pins  in  her  hair,  hurrying  to  the  terrace,  and  followed  by 
the  Countess  Valois. 

To  the  present  moment  the  cardinal  had  slightly  doubted 
as  to  his  unmeasurable  good  fortune — now  he  doubted  no 
more.  It  was  the  queen,  Marie  Antoinette,  who  was  ap- 
proaching. She  wore  the  same  dress,  the  same  coiffure 
which  she  had  worn  the  last  Sunday,  when  after  the  mass 
he  had  gone  to  Versailles  to  drive. 

Yes,  it  was  the  queen,  who  was  hurrying  across  the  ter- 
race, and  approaching  the  thicket  behind  which  the  car- 
dinal was  standing. 

"  Come,"  whispered  she,  softly,  and  the  cardinal  quickly 
emerged  from  the  shade,  sank  upon  his  knee  before  the 
queen,  and  eagerly  pressed  the  fair  hand  which  she  ex- 
tended to  him  to  his  lips.  "Your  eminence,"  whispered 
the  queen  to  him,  "  I  can  unfortunately  spend  only  a  mo- 
ment here.  I  cherish  nothing  against  you,  and  shall 
soon  show  you  marks  of  my  highest  favor.  Meantime,  ac- 
cept this  token  of  my  grace."  And  Marie  Antoinette  took 
a  rose  from  her  bosom  and  gave  it  to  the  cardinal.  "  Ac- 
cept, also,  this  remembrancer,"  whispered  the  queen,  again 
placing  a  little  case  in  his  hand.  "  It  is  my  portrait. 
Look  often  at  it,  and  never  doubt  me,  I — " 

At  this  moment  the  Countess  Valois,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing at  some  distance,  hastily  came  up. 

"  Some  one  is  coming,"  whispered  she;  "  for  God's  sake, 
your  majesty,  fly!" 

Voices  were  audible  in  the  distance,  and  soon  they  ap- 
proached. The  queen  grasped  the  hand  of  the  Countess 
Lamotte. 


84  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"Come,  my  friend,"  said  she.  "Farewell,  cardinal,  au 
revoir  !" 

Full  of  joy  at  the  high  good  fortune  which  had  fallen  to 
him,  and  at  the  same  time  saddened  at  the  abrupt  depart- 
ure of  the  queen,  the  cardinal  turned  back  to  Paris.  On 
the  next  day  the  Countess  Valois  brought  a  billet  from  the 
queen,  in  which  she  deeply  regretted  that  their  interview 
yesterday  had  been  so  brief,  and  promising  a  speedy  ap- 
pointment again.  Some  days  after  this  occurrence,  which 
constantly  occupied  the  mind  of  the  cardinal,  he  was 
obliged  to  go  to  Alsace,  to  celebrate  a  church  festival.  On 
the  very  next  day,  however,  came  the  husband  of  the 
countess,  Count  Lamotte,  sent  as  a  courier  by  the  count- 
ess. He  handed  the  cardinal  a  letter  from  the  queen, 
short  and  full  of  secrecy,  like  the  earlier  ones. 

"The  moment,"  wrote  the  queen — "the  mo'ment  which 
I  desired  is  not  yet  come.  But  I  beg  you  to  return  at 
once  to  Paris,  because  I  am  in  a  secret  affair,  which  con- 
cerns me  personally,  and  which  I  shall  intrust  to  you  alone, 
and  in  which  I  need  your  assistance.  The  Countess  La- 
motte-Valois  will  give  you  the  key  to  this  riddle." 

As  if  on  the  wings  of  birds,  the  cardinal  returned  to 
Paris,  and  at  once  repaired  to  the  little  palace  which  the 
countess  had  purchased  with  the  fruits  of  his  liberality. 
Here  he  learned  of  her  the  reason  of  his  being  sent  for. 
The  matter  in  question  was  the  purchasing  of  a  set  of 
jewels,  which  the  royal  jewellers,  Bohmer  and  Bassenge, 
had  often  offered  to  the  queen.  Marie  Antoinette  had 
seen  the  necklace,  and  had  been  enraptured  with  the  size 
and  beauty  of  the  diamonds.  But  she  had  had  the  spirit 
to  refuse  to  purchase  the  collar,  in  consequence  of  the 
enormous  price  which  the  jewellers  demanded.  She  had, 
however,  subsequently  regretted  her  refusal,  and  the 
princely  set  of  gems,  the  like  of  which  did  not  exist  in 
Europe,  had  awakened  the  most  intense  desire  on  the  part 
of  the  queen  to  possess  it.  She  wanted  to  purchase  it 
secretly,  without  the  knowledge  of  the  king,  and  to  pay 
for  it  gradually  out  of  the  savings  of  her  own  purse.  But 
just  then  the  jewellers  Bohmer  and  Bassenge  had  it  in 
view  to  send  the  necklace  to  Constantinople  for  the  Sultan, 
who  wanted  to  present  it  to  the  best-loved  of  his  wives. 


THE    TRIAL.  85 

But  before  completing  the  sale,  the  crown  jewellers  made 
one  more  application  to  the  queen,  declaring  that  if  she 
would  consent  to  take  the  necklace,  they  would  be  content 
with  any  conditions  of  payment.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
private  treasury  of  the  queen  was  empty.  The  severe 
winter  had  induced  much  suffering  and  misfortune,  and 
the  queen  had  given  all  her  funds  to  the  poor.  But  as  she 
earnestly  desired  to  purchase  the  necklace,  she  would  give 
her  grand  almoner  a  special  mark  of  her  favor  in  granting 
to  him  the  commission  of  purchasing  it  in  her  name.  He 
should  receive  a  paper  from  the  queen's  own  hand  author- 
izing the  purchase,  yet  he  should  keep  this  to  himself,  and 
show  it  only  to  the  court  jewellers  at  the  time  of  the  pur- 
chase. The  first  payment  of  six  hundred  thousand  francs 
the  cardinal  was  to  pay  from  his  own  purse,  the  remain- 
ing million  the  queen  would  pay  in  instalments  of  one 
hundred  thousand  francs  each,  at  the  expiration  of  every 
three  months.  In  the  next  three  months,  the  six  hundred 
thousand  francs  advanced  by  the  cardinal  should  be  re- 
funded. 

The  cardinal  felt  himself  highly  flattered  by  this  token 
of  the  queen's  confidence,  and  desired  nothing  more  than 
the  written  authorization  of  the  queen,  empowering  him 
to  make  the  purchase  at  once.  This  document  was  not 
waited  for  long.  Two  days  only  passed  before  the  Count- 
ess Lamotte- Valois  brought  it,  dated  at  Trianon,  and  sub- 
scribed Marie  Antoinette  of  France.  Meanwhile  some 
doubts  arose  in  the  mind  of  the  cardinal.  He  turned  to 
his  friend  and  adviser,  Count  Cagliostro,  for  counsel. 
The  latter  had  cured  him  years  before  while  very  sick,  and 
since  that  time  had  always  been  his  disinterested  friend, 
and  the  prophet,  so  to  speak,  who  always  indicated  the 
cardinal's  future  to  him.  This  man,  so  clear  in  his  fore- 
sight, so  skilful  in  medicine,  was  now  taken  into  confi- 
dence, and  his  advice  asked.  Count  Cagliostro  summoned 
the  spirits  that  waited  upon  him,  before  the  cardinal,  one 
solitary  night.  He  asked  these  invisible  presences  what 
their  counsel  was,  and  the  oracle  answered,  that  the  affair 
was  one  worthy  of  the  station  of  the  cardinal;  that  it 
would  have  a  fortunate  issue;  that  it  put  the  seal  upon  the 
favors  of  the  queen,  and  would  usher  in  the  fortunate  day 


86  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON: 

which  would  bring  the  great  talents  of  the  cardinal  into 
employment  for  the  benefit  of  France  and  the  world. 

The  cardinal  doubted  and  hesitated  no  longer.  He 
went  at  once  to  the  court  jewellers  Bohmer  and  Bassenge: 
he  did  not  conceal  from  them  that  he  was  going  to  buy  the 
necklace  in  the  name  of  the  queen,  and  showed  them  the 
written  authorization.  The  jewellers  entered  readily  into 
the  transaction.  The  cardinal  made  a  deposit  of  six  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  and  Bohmer  and  Bassenge  gave  him 
the  necklace.  It  was  the  day  before  a  great  festival,  and 
at  the  festival  the  queen  wanted  to  wear  the  necklace.  In 
the  evening  a  trusted  servant  of  the  queen  was  to  take  the 
necklace  from  the  dwelling  of  the  Countess  Lamotte- 
Valois.  The  countess  herself  requested  the  cardinal  to  be 
present,  though  unseen,  when  the  delivery  should  take 
place. 

In  accordance  with  this  agreement,  the  cardinal  repaired 
to  the  palace  of  the  countess  on  the  evening  of  February 
1st,  1784,  accompanied  by  a  trusted  valet,  who  carried  the 
casket  with  the  necklace.  At  the  doorway  he  himself  took 
the  collar  and  gave  it  to  the  countess.  She  conducted  the 
cardinal  to  an  alcove  adjoining  her  sitting-room.  Through 
the  door  provided  with  glass  windows  he  could  dimly  see 
the  sitting-room. 

After  some  minutes  the  main  entrance  opened,  and  a 
voice  cried:  "  In  the  service  of  the  queen!"  A  man  in 
the  livery  of  tae  queen,  whom  the  cardinal  had  often  seen 
at  the  countess's,  and  whom  she  had  told  was  a  confidential 
servant  of  the  queen,  entered  and  demanded  the  casket  in 
the  name  of  the  queen.  The  Countess  Valois  took  it  and 
gave  it  to  the  servant,  who  bowed  and  took  his  leave.  At 
the  moment  when  the  man  departed,  bearing  this  costly 
set  of  jewels,  the  cardinal  experienced  an  inexpressible 
sense  of  satisfaction  at  having  had  the  happiness  of  confer- 
ring a  service  upon  the  Queen  of  France,  the  wife  of  the 
king,  the  mother  of  the  future  king, — not  merely  in  the 
purchase  of  the  diamonds  which  she  desired,  but  still  more 
in  preventing  the  young  and  impulsive  woman  from  tak- 
ing the  unbecoming  step  of  applying  to  any  other  gentle- 
man of  the  court  for  this  assistance. 

At  these  words  the  spectators  broke  into  loud  exclama- 


THE   TRIAL.  87 

tious,  and  one  of  the  veiled  ladies  cried:  "Lords  Vau- 
dreuil  and  Coigny  would  not  have  paid  so  much,  but  they 
would  have  demanded  more."  And  this  expression,  too, 
was  greeted  with  loud  acclaims. 

The  first  president  of  the  court,  Baron  de  1'Aigre,  here 
cast  a  grave  look  toward  the  tribune  where  the  spectators 
sat,  but  his  reproach  died  away  upon  lips  which  disclosed 
a  faint  inclination  to  smile. 

"I  now  beg  your  eminence,"  he  said,  "to  answer  the 
following  question :  "  Did  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  per- 
sonally thank  you  for  the  great  service  which,  according 
to  your  showing,  you  did  her?  How  is  it  with  the  pay- 
ments which  the  queen  pledged  herself  to  make?" 

The  cardinal  was  silent  for  a  short  time,  and  looked 
sadly  before  him.  "  Since  the  day  when  I  closed  this  un- 
fortunate purchase,  I  have  experienced  only  disquietudes, 
griefs,  and  humiliations.  This  is  the  only  return  which  I 
have  received  for  my  devotion.  The  queen  has  never  be- 
stowed a  word  upon  me.  At  the  great  festival  she  did  not 
even  wear  the  necklace  which  she  had  sent  for  on  the 
evening  before.  I  complained  of  this  to  the  countess,  and 
the  queen  had  the  goodness  to  write  me  a  note,  saying 
that  she  had  found  the  necklace  too  valuable  to  wear  on 
that  day,  because  it  would  have  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  king  and  the  court.  I  confided  in  the  words  of  the 
queen,  and  experienced  no  doubts  about  the  matter  till  the 
unhappy  day  when  the  queen  was  to  make  the  first  pay- 
ment to  the  jewellers,  and  when  she  sent  neither  to  me  nor 
to  the  jewellers  a  word.  Upon  this  a  fearful  suspicion  be- 
gan to  trouble  me, — that  my  devotion  to  the  queen  might 
have  been  taken  advantage  of,  in  order  to  deceive  and 
mislead  me.  When  this  dreadful  thought  seized  me,  I 
shuddered,  and  had  not  power  to  look  down  into  the  abyss 
which  suddenly  yawned  beneath  me.  I  at  once  summoned 
the  Countess  Lamotte,  and  desired  her  solution  of  this 
inexplicable  conduct  of  the  queen.  She  told  me  that  she 
had  baen  on  the  point  of  coming  to  me  and  informing  me, 
at  the  request  of  the  queen,  that  other  necessary  outlays 
had  prevented  the  queen's  paying  me  the  six  hundred 
thousand  francs  that  I  had  disbursed  to  Bohmer  at  the 
purchase  of  the  necklace,  and  that  she  must  be  content 


88  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

with  paying  the  interest  of  this  sum,  thirty  thousand 
francs.  The  queen  requested  me  to  be  satisfied  for  the 
present  with  this  arrangement,  and  to  be  sure  of  her  favor. 
I  trusted  the  words  of  the  countess  once  more,  took  fresh 
courage,  and  sent  word  to  the  queen  that  I  should  always 
count  myself  happy  to  conform  to  her  arrangements,  and 
be  her  devoted  servant.  The  countess  dismissed  me,  say- 
ing that  she  would  bring  the  money  on  the  morrow.  In 
the  mean  time,  something  occurred  that  awakened  all  my 
doubts  and  all  rny  anxieties  afresh.  I  visited  the  Duchess 
de  Polignac,  and  while  I  was  with  her,  there  was  handed 
her  a  note  from  the  queen.  I  requested  the  duchess,  in 
case  the  billet  contained  no  secret,  to  show  it  to  me,  that 
I  might  see  the  handwriting  of  the  queen.  The  duchess 
complied  with  my  request,  and — " 

The  cardinal  was  silent,  and  deep  inward  excitement 
made  his  face  pale.  He  bowed  his  head,  folded  his  hands, 
and  his  lips  moved  in  whispered  prayer. 

The  judges,  as  well  as  the  spectators,  remained  silent. 
No  one  was  able  to  break  the  solemn  stillness  by  an  audible 
breath — by  a  single  movement. 

At  length,  after  a  long  pause,  when  the  cardinal  had 
raised  his  head  again,  the  president  asked  gently:  "And 
so  your  eminence  saw  the  note  of  the  queen,  and  was  it 
not  the  same  writing  as  the  letters  which  you  had  received?" 

"No,  it  was  not  the  same!"  cried  the  cardinal,  with 
pain.  "  No,  it  was  an  entirely  different  hand.  Only  the 
signature  had  any  resemblance,  although  the  letter  to  the 
duchess  was  simply  subscribed  'Marie  Antoinette. '  I  hast- 
ened home,  and  awaited  the  coming  of  the  countess  with 
feverish  impatience.  She  came,  smiling  as  ever,  and 
brought  me  the  thirty  thousand  francs.  With  glowing, 
passionate  words,  I  threw  my  suspicions  in  her  face.  She 
appeared  a  moment  alarmed,  confused,  and  then  granted 
that  it  was  possible  that  the  letters  were  not  from  the  hand 
of  the  queen,  but  that  she  had  dictated  them.  But  the 
signatures  were  the  queen's,  she  could  take  her  oath  of  it. 
I  again  took  a  little  courage;  but  soon  after  the  countess 
had  left  me,  the  jewellers  came  in  the  highest  excitement 
to  me,  to  tell  me  that,  receiving  no  payments  from  the 
queen,  they  had  applied  in  writing  to  her  several  times, 


THE   TRIAL.  89 

without  receiving  any  answer;  their  efforts  to  obtain  an 
audience  were  also  all  in  vain,  and  so  they  had  at  last  ap- 
plied to  the  first  lady-in-waiting  on  the  queen,  Madame  de 
Campan,  with  whom  they  had  just  had  an  interview. 
Madame  de  Campan  had  told  them  that  the  queen  did  not 
possess  the  necklace ;  that  no  Countess  Lamotte-Valois  had 
ever  had  an  interview  with  the  queen;  that  she  had  told 
the  jewellers  with  extreme  indignation  that  some  one  had 
been  deceiving  them;  that  they  were  the  victims  of  a 
fraud,  and  that  she  would  at  once  go  to  Trianon  to  inform 
the  queen  of  this  fearful  intrigue.  This  happened  on  a 
Thursday;  on  the  following  Sunday  I  repaired  to  Ver- 
sailles to  celebrate  high  mass,  and  the  rest  you  know.  I 
have  nothing  further  to  add." 

"  In  the  name  of  the  court  I  thank  your  eminence  for 
your  open  and  clear  exposition  of  this  sad  history,"  said 
the  president,  solemnly.  "  Your  eminence  needs  refresh- 
ment, you  are  free  to  withdraw  and  to  return  to  the 
Bastile." 

The  cardinal  rose  and  bowed  to  the  court.  All  the 
judges  stood,  and  respectfully  returned  the  salutation.* 

One  of  the  veiled  ladies,  sitting  on  the  spectators'  seats, 
cried  with  trembling  voice :  "  God  bless  the  cardinal,  the 
noble  martyr  of  the  realm!" 

All  the  spectators  repeated  the  cry;  and,  while  the 
words  yet  rang,  the  cardinal,  followed  by  the  officers  who 
were  to  take  him  to  the  Bastile,  had  left  the  hall. 

"Guards!"  cried  President  de  1'Aigre,  with  a  loud 
voice,  "bring  in  the  accused,  the  Countess  de  Lamotte- 
Valois!" 

All  eyes  directed  themselves  to  the  door  which  the 
guards  now  opened,  and  through  which  the  accused  was 
to  enter. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  this  door  appeared  now  a  lady  of 
slim,  graceful  form,  in  a  toilet  of  the  greatest  elegance, 
her  head  decorated  with  feathers,  flowers,  and  lace,  her 
cheeks  highly  painted,  and  her  fine  ruby  lips  encircled  by 
a  pert,  and  at  the  same  time  a  mocking  smile,  which  dis- 
played two  rows  of  the  finest  teeth.  With  this  smile  upon 
her  lips  she  moved  forward  with  a  light  and  spirited  step, 

*  Historical.— See  "M6moires  de  l'Abb6  Georgel,"  vol.  i. 


90  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

turning  her  great  blazing  black  eyes  with  proud,  inquisi- 
tive looks  now  to  the  stern  semicircle  of  judges  and  now 
to-  the  tribune,  whose  occupants  had  not  been  able  to  sup- 
press a  movement  of  indignation  and  a  subdued  hiss. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  she,  with  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  in 
which  not  the  faintest  quiver,  not  the  least  excitement 
was  apparent — "  gentlemen,  are  we  here  in  a  theatre,  where 
the  players  who  tread  the  boards  are  received  with  audible 
signs  of  approval  or  of  disfavor?" 

The  president,  to  whom  her  dark  eyes  were  directed, 
deigned  to  give  no  answer,  but  turned  with  an  expressive 
gesture  to  the  officer  who  stood  behind  the  accused. 

He  understood  this  sign,  and  brought  from  the  corner 
of  the  hall  a  wooden  seat  of  rough,  clumsy  form,  to  whose 
high  back  of  unpolished  dirty  wood  two  short  iron  chains 
were  attached. 

This  seat  he  placed  near  the  handsome,  gaudily-dressed 
countess  with  her  air  of  assurance  and  self-confidence,  and 
pointed  to  it  with  a  commanding  gesture. 

"Be  seated,"  he  said,  with  a  loud,  lordly  tone.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  looked  at  the  offered  seat  with 
an  expression  of  indignation.  "How!"  she  cried,  "who 
dares  offer  me  the  chair  of  criminals  to  sit  in?" 

"Be  seated,"  replied  the  officer.  "The  seat  of  the  ac- 
cused is  ready  for  you,  and  the  chains  upon  it  are  for  those 
who  are  not  inclined  to  take  it." 

A  cry  of  anger  escaped  from  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
an  annihilating  glance  upon  the  venturesome  officer,  but 
he  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  least  affected  by  the  light- 
ning from  her  eyes,  but  met  it  with  perfect  tranquillity. 

"If  you  do  not  take  it  of  yourself,  madame,"  he  said, 
"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  summon  the  police;  we  shall  then 
compel  you  to  take  the  seat,  and  in  order  to  prevent  your 
rising,  the  chains  will  be  bound  around  your  arms." 

The  countess  answered  only  with  an  exclamation  of 
anger,  and  fixed  her  inquiring  looks  upon  the  judges,  the 
accusers,  the  defenders,  and  then  again  upon  the  specta- 
tors. Everywhere  she  encountered  only  a  threatening 
mien  and  suspicious  looks,  nowhere  an  expression  of  sym- 
pathy. 

But  it  was  just  this  which  seemed  to  give  her   courage 


THE   TRIAL.  91 

and  to  steel  her  strength.  She  raised  her  head  proudly, 
forced  the  smile  again  upon  her  lips,  and  took  her  seat 
upon  the  chair  with  a  grace  and  dignity  as  if  she  were  in 
a  brilliant  saloon,  and  was  taking  her  seat  upon  an  ele- 
gant sofa. 

The  president  of  the  court  now  turned  his  grave, 
rigid  face  to  the  countess,  and  asked:  "Who  are  you, 
madame?  What  is  your  name,  and  how  old  are  you?" 

The  countess  gave  way  to  a  loud,  melodious  laugh.  "  My 
lord  president,"  answered  she,  "it  is  very  clear  that  you 
are  not  much  accustomed  to  deal  with  ladies,  or  else  you 
would  not  take  the  liberty  of  asking  a  lady,  like  myself  in 
her  prime,  after  her  age.  I  will  pardon  you  this  breach  of 
etiquette,  and  I  will  magnanimously  pretend  not  to  have 
heard  that  question,  in  order  to  answer  the  others.  You 
wish  to  know  my  name?  I  am  the  Countess  Lamotte- 
Valois  of  France,  the  latest  descendant  of  the  former  Kings 
of  France;  and  if  in  this  unhappy  land,  which  is  trodden 
to  the  dust  by  a  stupid  king  and  a  dissolute  queen,  right 
and  justice  still  prevailed,  I  should  sit  on  the  throne  of 
France,  and  the  coquette  who  now  occupies  it  would  be 
sitting  here  in  this  criminal's  chair,  to  justify  herself  for 
the  theft  which  she  has  committed, for  it  is  Marie  Antoinette 
who  possesses  the  diamonds  of  the  jeweller  Bohmer,  not  I." 

At  the  spectators'  tribune  a  gentle  bravo  was  heard  at 
these  words,  and  this  daring  calumny  upon  the  queen 
found  no  reproval  even  from  the  judges'  bench. 

"Madame,"  said  L'Aigre,  after  a  short  pause,  "instead 
of  simply  answering  my  questions  you  reply  with  a  high- 
sounding  speech,  which  contains  an  untruth,  for  it  is  not 
true  that  you  can  lay  any  claim  to  the  throne  of  France. 
The  descendants  of  bastards  have  claims  neither  to  the 
name  nor  the  rank  of  their  fathers.  Since,  in  respect  to 
your  name  and  rank,  you  have  answered  with  an  untruth, 
I  will  tell  you  who  and  what  you  are.  Your  father  was  a 
poor  peasant  in  the  village  of  Auteuil.  He  called  himself 
Valois,  and  the  clergyman  of  the  village  one  day  told  the 
wife  of  the  proprietor  of  Auteuil,  Madame  de  Boulain- 
villier,  that  the  peasant  of  Valois  was  in  possession  of  fam- 
ily papers,  according  to  which  it  was  unquestionable  that 
he  was  an  illegitimate  descendant  of  the  old  royal  family. 
7 


92  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HEE    SON. 

The  good  priest  at  the  same  time  recommended  the  pooi\ 
hungry  children  of  the  day-laborer  Valois  to  the  kindness 
of  Madame  de  Boulainvillier,  and  the  old  lady  hastened  to 
comply  with  this  recommendation.  She  had  the  daughter 
of  Valois  called  to  her  to  ask  her  how  she  could  assist  her 
in  her  misery." 

"  Say  rather  to  gain  for  herself  the  credit  that  she  had 
shown  kindnesses  to  the  descendants  of  the  Kings  of 
France,"  interrupted  the  countess,  quickly. 

"This  would  have  been  a  sorry  credit,"  replied  Presi- 
dent L'Aigre.  "  The  Valois  family  had  for  a  long  time 
been  extinct,  and  the  last  man  of  that  name  who  is  known, 
was  detected  in  counterfeiting,  sentenced,  and  executed. 
Your  grandfather  was  an  illegitimate  son  of  the  counter- 
feiter Valois.  That  is  the  sum  total  of  your  relation  to 
the  royal  family  of  France.  It  is  possible  that  upon  this 
very  chair  on  which  you  now  sit,  accused  of  this  act  of 
deception,  your  natural  great-grandfather  once  sat,  ac- 
cused like  you  of  an  act  of  deception,  in  order,  after  con- 
viction of  his  crime,  to  be  punished  according  to  the  laws 
of  France." 

The  countess  made  a  motion  as  if  she  wanted  to  rise 
from  the  unfortunate  seat,  but  instantly  the  heavy  hand  of 
the  officer  was  laid  upon  her  shoulder,  and  his  threatening 
voice  said,  "  Sit  still,  or  I  put  on  the  chains!" 

The  Countess  Lamotte- Valois  of  France  sank  back  with 
a  loud  sob  upon  the  chair,  and  for  the  first  time  a  death- 
like paleness  diffused  itself  over  her  hitherto  rosy  cheeks. 

"  So  Madame  de  Boulainvillier  had  the  children  of  the 
day-laborer  Valois  called,"  continued  the  president,  with 
his  imperturbable  self-possession.  "  The  oldest  daughter, 
a  girl  of  twelve  years,  pleased  her  in  consequence  of  her 
lively  nature  and  her  attractive  exterior.  She  took  her  to 
herself,  she  gave  her  an  excellent  education,  she  was  re- 
solved to  provide  for  her  whole  future ;  when  one  day  the 
young  Valois  disappeared  from  the  chateau  of  Madame  de 
Boulainvillier.  She  had  eloped  with  the  sub-lieutenant, 
Count  Lamotte,  and  announced  to  her  benefactress,  in  a 
letter  which  she  left  behind,  that  she  was  escaping  from 
the  slavery  in  which  she  had  hitherto  lived,  and  that  she 
left  her  curse  to  those  who  wanted  to  hinder  her  marrying 


THE   TRIAL.  93 

the  man  of  her  choice.  But  in  order  to  accomplish  her 
marriage,  she  confessed  that  she  had  found  it  necessary  to 
rob  the  casket  of  Madame  de  Boulainvillier,  and  that  out 
of  this  money  she  should  defray  her  expenses.  It  was  a 
sum  of  twenty  thousand  francs  which  the  fugitive  had 
robbed  from  her  benefactress." 

"  I  take  the  liberty  of  remarking  to  you,  Mr.  President, 
that  you  are  there  making  use  of  a  totally  false  expression," 
interrupted  the  countess.  "  It  cannot  be  said  that  I 
robbed  this  sum.  It  was  the  dowry  which  Madame  de 
Boulainvillier  had  promised  to  give  me  in  case  of  my  mar- 
riage, and  I  only  took  what  was  my  own,  as  I  was  upon 
the  point  of  marrying.  Madame  de  Boulainvillier  herself 
justified  me  in  taking  this  sum,  for  she  never  asked  me  to 
return  it  or  filed  an  accusation  against  me." 

"Because  she  wanted  to  prevent  the  matter  becoming 
town-talk,"  remarked  the  president,  quietly.  "Madame 
de  Boulainvillier  held  her  peace,  and  relinquished  punish- 
ment to  the  righteous  Judge  who  lives  above  the  stars." 

"  And  who  surely  has  not  descended  from  the  stars  to 
assume  the  president's  chair  of  this  court,"  cried  Lamotte, 
with  a  mocking  laugh. 

President  L'Aigre,  without  heeding  the  interruption, 
continued: 

"  The  daughter  of  the  laborer  Valois  married  the  sub- 
lieutenant Lamotte,  who  lived  in  a  little  garrison  city  of 
the  province,  and  sought  to  increase  his  meagre  salary  by 
many  ingenious  devices.  He  not  merely  gave  instruction 
in  fencing  and  riding,  but  he  was  also  a  very  skilful  card- 
player — so  skilful,  that  fortune  almost  always  accompanied 
him." 

"  My  lord,"  cried  the  countess,  springing  up,  "  you  seem 
to  want  to  hint  that  Count  Lamotte  played  a  false  game. 
You  surely  would  not  venture  to  say  this  if  the  count  were 
free,  for  he  would  challenge  you  for  this  insult,  and  it  is 
well  known  that  his  stroke  is  fatal  to  those  who  stand  in 
the  way  of  his  dagger." 

"  I  hint  at  nothing,  and  I  merely  call  things  by  their 
right  names,"  replied  the  president,  smiling.  "In  conse- 
quence of  strong  suspicions  of  false  play,  Count  Lamotte 
was  driven  out  of  his  regiment;  and  as  the  young  pair  had 


94  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

in  the  mean  time  consumed  the  stolen  wedding-money, 
they  must  discover  some  new  way  of  making  a  living. 
The  young  husband  repaired  to  the  south  of  France  to 
continue  his  card-playing;  the  young  wife,  having  for  her 
fortune  her  youth  and  the  splendor  of  her  name,  repaired 
to  Paris,  both  resolved  de  corriger  la  fortune  wherever  and 
however  they  could.  This,  madame,"  continued  the  pres- 
ident, after  a  pause,  "  this  is  the  true  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion, how  you  are  called,  and  who  you  are." 

"The  answer  is,  however,  not  yet  quite  satisfactory," 
replied  Lamotte,  in  an  impudent  tone.  "  You  have  for- 
gotten to  add  that  I  am  the  friend  of  the  cardinal,  Prince 
Louis  de  Rohan,  the  confidante  and  friend  of  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette,  and  that  both  now  want  to  do  me  the  honor  to 
make  me  their  bete  de  souffrance,  and  to  let  me  suffer  for 
what  they  have  done  and  are  guilty  of.  My  whole  crime  lies 
in  this,  that  I  helped  the  Queen  of  France  gain  the  jewels 
for  which  her  idle  and  trivial  soul  longed ;  that  I  helped 
the  amorous  and  light-minded  cardinal  approach  the  ob- 
ject of  his  love,  and  procured  for  him  an  interview  with 
the  queen.  That  is  all  that  can  be  charged  upon  me;  I 
procured  for  the  queen  the  fine  necklace  of  Messrs.  Boh- 
mer  and  Bassenge ;  I  gave  the  cardinal,  as  the  price  of  a 
part  of  the  necklace,  a  tender  tete-a-tete  with  the  queen. 
The  cardinal  will  not  deny  that  in  the  garden  of  Versailles 
he  had  a  rendezvous  with  the  queen,  that  he  kissed  her 
hand  and  received  a  rose  from  her ;  and  the  queen  will  be 
compelled  to  confess  in  the  end  that  the  necklace  is  in  her 
possession.  What  blame  can  be  laid  on  me  for  this?" 

"  The  blame  of  deception,  of  defalcation,  of  forgery,  of 
calumny,  of  theft,"  replied  the  president,  with  solemn 
earnestness.  "  You  deceived  Cardinal  de  Rohan  in  saying 
that  you  knew  the  queen,  that  you  were  intimate  with 
her,  that  she  honored  you  with  her  confidence.  You 
forged,  or  got  some  one  to  forge,  the  handwriting  of  the 
queen,  and  prepared  letters  which  you  gave  to  the  cardi- 
nal, pretending  that  they  came  from  the  queen.  You 
misused  the  devotion  of  the  cardinal  to  the  royal  family, 
and  caused  his  eminence  to  believe  that  the  queen  desired 
his  services  in  the  purchase  of  the  necklace;  and  after  the 
cardinal,  full  of  pleasure,  had  been  able  to  do  a  service  to 


THE    TRIAL.  95 

the  queen,  had  treated  with  Bohmer  and  Bassenge,  had 
paid  a  part  of  the  purchase  money,  and  gave  you  the  neck- 
lace in  charge  to  be  put  into  the  queen's  hands,  you  were 
guilty  of  theft,  for  the  queen  knows  nothing  of  the  neck- 
lace; the  queen  never  gave  you  the  honor  of  an  audience, 
the  queen  never  spoke  with  you,  and  no  one  of  the  queen's 
companions  ever  saw  the  Countess  Lamotte." 

"That  means  they  disown  me;  they  all  disown  me!" 
cried  the  countess,  with  flaming  rage,  stamping  upon  the 
floor  with  her  little  satin-covered  foot.  "  But  the  truth 
will  one  day  come  to  the  light.  The  cardinal  will  not 
deny  that  the  queen  gave  him  a  rendezvous  at  Versailles; 
that  she  thanked  him  personally  for  the  necklace  which 
she  had  procured  through  his  instrumentality." 

"Yes,  the  truth  will  come  to  the  light,"  answered  the 
president.  "  I  summon  the  crown  attorney,  M.  de  Boril- 
lon,  to  present  the  charge  against  the  Countess  Lamotte- 
Valois." 

On  this  the  attorney-general,  Borillon,  rose,  and  amid 
the  breathless  silence  of  the  assembly  began  to  speak.  He 
painted  the  countess  as  a  crafty,  skilful  adventuress,  who 
had  come  to  Paris  with  the  determined  purpose  of  mak- 
ing her  fortune  in  whatever  way  it  could  be  done.  He 
then  spoke  of  the  destitution  in  which  she  had  lived  at 
first,  of  the  begging  letters  which  she  addressed  to  all  people 
of  distinction,  and  especially  to  Cardinal  de  Kohan,  in 
consequence  of  his  well-known  liberality.  He  painted  in 
lively  and  touching  colors  the  scene  where  the  cardinal, 
struck  by  the  name  of  the  suppliant,  went  in  person  to  the 
attic  to  convince  himself  whether  it  were  really  true  that  a 
descendant  of  the  Kings  of  France  had  been  driven  to  such 
poverty  and  humiliation,  and  to  give  her  assistance  for  the 
sake  of  the  royal  house,  to  which  he  was  devoted  heart  and 
soul.  He  painted  further  how  the  cardinal,  attracted  by 
the  lively  spirits,  amiability,  and  intellectual  character  of 
Lamotte- Valois,  had  given  her  his  confidence,  and  believed 
what  she  told  him  about  her  favor  with  the  queen,  and  her 
intimate  relations  with  her.  "  The  cardinal,"  continued 
the  attorney-general,  "  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  the 
trustworthiness  of  the  countess;  he  had  not  the  least  sus- 
picion that  he  was  appointed  to  become  the  victim  of  an 


96  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

intriguer,  who  would  take  advantage  of  his  noble  spirit, 
his  magnanimity,  to  deceive  him  and  to  enrich  herself. 
The  countess  knew  the  boundless  devotion  of  the  cardinal 
to  the  queen ;  she  had  heard  his  complaints  of  the  proud 
coldness,  the  public  slights  which  she  offered  to  him.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  had  heard  of  the  costly  diamond  neck- 
lace which  Bohmer  and  Bassenge  had  repeatedly  offered  to 
the  queen,  and  that  she  had  refused  to  take  it  on  account 
of  the  enormous  price  which  they  demanded  for  it.  On 
this  the  countess  formed  her  plan  and  it  succeeded  per- 
fectly. She  caused  the  cardinal  to  hope  that  he  would 
soon  have  an  audience  of  the  queen,  if  he  would  give  solid 
assurances  of  his  devotion,  and  when  he  professed  himself 
ready,  she  proposed  to  him,  as  acting  under  the  queen's 
instructions,  the  purchase  of  the  necklace.  The  cardinal 
declared  himself  ready  to  accede,  and  the  affair  took  the 
course  already  indicated  with  such  touching  frankness  and 
lofty  truthfulness  by  his  eminence.  He  brought  the  pur- 
chase to  a  conclusion ;  he  paid  the  first  instalment  of  six 
hundred  thousand  francs,  and  gave  the  necklace  to  the 
friend  of  the  queen,  the  Countess  Lamotte-Valois,  after  he 
had  availed  himself  of  her  assistance  in  receiving  from  the 
lips  and  hand  of  the  queen  in  the  garden  of  Versailles  the 
assurance  of  the  royal  favor.  The  countess  at  once  brought 
the  cardinal  a  paper  from  the  queen,  stating  that  she  had 
received  the  necklace,  and  conveying  to  him  the  warm 
thanks  of  his  queen.  The  cardinal  felt  himself  richly  re- 
warded by  this  for  all  his  pains  and  outlays,  and  in  the 
joy  of  his  heart  wanted  to  repay  her  who,  in  so  prudent 
and  wise  a  manner,  had  effected  his  reconciliation  with  the 
queen.  He  settled  upon  her  a  yearly  pension  of  four 
thousand  francs,  payable  her  whole  life,  and  the  countess 
accepted  it  with  tears  of  emotion,  and  swore  eternal  grati- 
tude to  the  cardinal.  But  while  uttering  this  very  oath 
she  was  conspiring  against  her  benefactor,  and  laughing  in 
her  sleeve  at  the  credulous  prince  who  had  fallen  into  the 
very  net  which  she  had  prepared  for  him.  Her  most 
active  ally  was  her  husband,  whom  she  had  long  before 
summoned  to  Paris,  and  who  was  the  abetter  of  her  in- 
trigue. The  countess  had  now  become  a  rich  lady,  and 
was  able  to  indulge  all  her  cravings  for  splendor  and  lux- 


THE   TRIAL.  97 

ury.  She  who,  down  to  that  time,  had  stood  as  a  sup- 
plicant before  the  doors  of  the  rich,  could  herself  have  a 
princely  dwelling,  and  could  devote  great  sums  to  its 
adornment.  The  most  celebrated  makers  were  called  on 
to  furnish  the  furniture  and  the  decorations,  and,  as  if  by 
a  touch  of  magic,  she  was  surrounded  by  fabulous  luxury; 
the  fairest  equipages  stood  ready  for  her,  the  finest  horses 
in  her  stable,  and  a  troop  of  lackeys  waited  upon  the  beck 
of  the  fair  lady  who  displayed  her  princely  splendor  before 
them.  A  choice  silver  service  glittered  upon  her  table, 
and  she  possessed  valuables  worth  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  francs.  More  than  this,  she  enjoyed  the  best  of 
all,  a  tender  and  devoted  husband,  who  overloaded  her 
with  presents;  from  London,  whither  he  was  called  by 
pressing  family  affairs,  he  sent  his  wife  a  medallion  of 
diamonds,  which  was  subsequently  estimated  at  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  louis-d'ors,  and  a  pearl  bracelet  worth  two 
hundred  louis-d'ors.  Returning  from  his  journey,  he 
surprised  his  wife  with  a  new  and  splendid  present.  He 
had  purchased  a  palace  in  Bar-sur-Aube,  and  thither  the 
whole  costly  furniture  of  his  hired  house  was  carried. 
Would  you  know  where  all  these  rare  gifts  were  drawn? 
The  Countess  Lamotte  had  broken  the  necklace,  and  taken 
the  stones  from  their  setting.  For  the  gold  alone  which 
was  used  in  the  setting  she  received  forty  thousand  francs; 
for  one  of  the  diamonds,  which  she  sold  in  Paris,  she  re- 
ceived fifty  thousand  francs;  for  another,  thirty-six  thou- 
sand. The  diamonds  of  uncommon  size  and  immense 
worth  she  did  not  dare  to  dispose  of  in  Paris,  and  her  hus- 
band was  compelled  to  journey  to  London  to  sell  a  portion 
of  them  there.  On  his  return  thence  he  was  able  to  buy 
for  his  wife  the  house  in  Bar-sur-Aube,  for  the  sum  re- 
ceived in  London  was  four  hundred  thousand  francs  in 
gold,  in  addition  to  the  pearls  and  the  diamond  medallion 
which  he  brought  his  wife  from  London.  And  of  all  this 
luxury,  this  extravagance,  Cardinal  de  Rohan  had  nat- 
urally no  suspicion.  When  he  visited  her,  where  did  the 
countess  receive  him?  In  a  poorly-furnished  attic-cham- 
ber of  the  house  hired  by  her.  In  simple,  modest  attire, 
she  met  him  there  and  told  him  with  trembling  voice  that 
the  rich  countess  who  lived  in  the  two  lower  stories  of  the 


98  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

bouse  had  allowed  her  to  have  this  suite  next  to  the  roof 
gratis.  But  when  danger  approached,  and  Lamotte  began 
to  fear  that  Bohmer  and  Bassenge,  in  claiming  their  pay 
from  the  queen,  would  bring  the  history  of  the  necklace  to 
the  light,  the  countess  came  to  the  cardinal  to  pay  her 
parting  respects,  as  she  was  going  into  the  country  to  a 
friend  to  live  in  the  greatest  privacy.  She  left  Paris 
merely  to  repair  to  Bar-sur-Aube  and  live  in  her  magnifi- 
cent palace.  She  tarried  there  so  long  as  to  allow  the 
police  detectives  to  discover  in  the  rich  and  elegant  lady 
the  intriguer  Lamotte- Valois,  and  to  effect  the  imprison- 
ment of  her  husband  and  his  friend,  the  so-called  Count 
Cagliostro.  Her  other  abetters  had  put  themselves  out  of 
sight,  and  were  not  to  be  discovered.  However,  their  ar- 
rest was  not  specially  necessary,  for  the  facts  were  already 
sufficiently  strong  and  clear.  Some  of  the  diamonds  which 
Lamotte  had  sold  in  London  were  brought  back  to  Paris, 
and  had  been  recognized  by  Bohmer  and  Bassenge  as  be- 
longing to  the  necklace  which  they  had  sold  to  the  queen. 
The  goldsmith  had  been  discovered  to  whom  the  countess 
had  sold  the  golden  setting  of  the  necklace,  and  Bohmer 
and  Bassenge  had  recognized  in  the  fragments  which  re- 
mained their  own  work.  It  is  unquestionable  that  the 
Countess  Lamotte-Valois,  through  her  intrigues  and  cun- 
ning, had  been  able  to  gain  possession  of  the  necklace,  and 
that  she  had  appropriated  it  to  her  own  use.  The  count- 
ess is  therefore  guilty  of  theft  and  deception.  She  is, 
moreover,  guilty  of  forgery,  for  she  has  imitated  the 
handwriting  of  the  queen,  and  subscribed  it  with  the  royal 
name.  But  the  hand  is  neither  that  of  the  queen,  nor 
does  the  queen  ever  subscribe  herself  'Marie  Antoinette  of 
France. '  This  makes  Lamotte  open  to  the  charge  of  both 
forgery  and  contempt  of  majesty,  for  she  has  even  dared 
to  drag  the  sacred  person  of  the  Queen  of  France  into  her 
mesh  of  lies,  and  to  make  her  majesty  the  heroine  of  a  dis- 
honorable love-adventure." 

"My  lord,"  cried  Countess  Lamotte,  with  a  loud  laugh, 
"  you  are  not  driven  to  the  necessity  of  involving  the  queen 
in  dishonorable  love-adventures.  The  queen  is  in  reality 
the  heroine  of  so  many  adventures  of  this  character,  that 
you  can  have  your  choice  of  them.  A  queen  who  visits 


THE   TRIAL.  99 

the  opera-house  balls  incognito,  drives  thither  masked  and 
in  a  fiacre,  and  who  appears  incognito  on  the  terraces  of 
Versailles  with  strange  soldiers,  exchanging  jocose  words 
with  them — a  queen  of  the  type  of  this  Austrian  may  not 
wonder  to  find  her  name  identified  with  the  heroine  of  a 
love-adventure.  But  we  are  speaking  now  not  of  a  ro- 
mance, but  of  a  reality,  and  I  am  not  to  be  accused  of 
forgery  and  contempt  of  majesty  without  having  the  proofs 
brought  forward.  This  cannot,  however,  be  done,  for  I 
have  the  proofs  of  my  innocence.  The  cardinal  had  an 
interview  with  the  queen,  and  she  gave  him  a  receipt  for 
the  diamonds.  If  she  wrote  her  signature  differently  from 
her  usual  manner,  it  is  not  my  fault.  It  only  shows  that 
the  queen  was  cunning  enough  to  secure  an  alibi,  so  to 
speak,  for  her  signature,  and  to  leave  a  rear  door  open  for 
herself,  through  which  she  could  slip  with  her  exalted 
name,  in  case  the  affair  was  discovered,  and  leave  me  to 
be  her  bete  de  souffrance.  But  I  am  by  no  means  disposed 
to  accept  this  part,  for  I  declare  here  solemnly,  before  God 
and  man,  that  I  am  innocent  of  the  crime  laid  to  my 
charge.  I  was  only  a  too  true  and  devoted  friend,  that  is 
all!  I  sacrificed  my  own  safety  and  peace  to  the  welfare 
of  my  exalted  friends,  and  I  now  complain  of  them  that 
they  have  treated  me  unthankfully  in  this  matter.  But 
they  must  bear  the  blame,  they  alone.  Let  the  queen 
show  that  she  did  not  give  the  cardinal  a  rendezvous  in  the 
park  of  Versailles;  let  her  further  show  that  she  did  not 
sign  the  promissory  note,  and  the  letters  to  his  eminence, 
and  then  I  shall  be  exposed  to  the  charge  of  being  a  de- 
ceiver and  a  traitor.  But  so  long  as  this  is  not  done — and 
it  cannot  be  done,  for  God  is  just,  and  will  not  permit  the 
innocent  to  suffer  for  the  guilty — so  long  will  all  France, 
yes,  all  Europe,  be  convinced  that  the  queen  is  the  guilty 
one;  that  she  received  the  jewels,  and  paid  the  cardinal 
for  them  as  a  coquette  and  light-minded  woman  does,  with 
tender  words,  with  smiles  and  loving  looks,  and,  last  of 
all,  with  a  rendezvous!" 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  attorney-general,  as  the  count- 
ess ceased,  and  looked  around  her  with  a  victorious  smile — 
"  you  are  quite  right,  God  is  just,  and  He  will  not  permit 
the  innocent  to  suffer  for  the  guilty.  He  will  not  let  your 


100  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

infernal  intrigue  stand  as  truth ;  He  will  tear  away  the 
mask  of  innocence  from  your  deceiver's  face,  and  let  you 
stand  forth  in  all  your  impudence  and  deception." 

"My  lord,"  cried  the  countess,  smiling,  "those  are  very 
high-sounding  words,  but  they  are  no  proofs." 

"We  will  now  give  the  proofs,"  answered  the  attorney- 
general,  turning  to  one  of  the  guards.  "  Let  the  lady  en- 
ter who  is  waiting  in  the  room  outside." 

The  officer  gave  a  sign  to  one  of  the  men  who  stood  near 
the  door  leading  to  the  witness-room ;  he  entered  the  ad- 
joining apartment,  but  soon  after  returned  alone  and  whis- 
pered something  in  the  officer's  ear. 

"  The  lady  asks  the  court's  indulgence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments," said  the  officer,  aloud.  "  As  she  must  be  separated 
some  hours  from  her  child,  she  asks  permission  to  suckle 
it  a  few  moments." 

The  president  cast  an  inquiring  look  at  the  judges,  who 
all  nodded  affirmatively. 

The  law  was  silent  before  the  voice  of  Nature;  all  waited 
noiselessly  till  the  witness  had  quieted  her  child. 

And  now  the  door  of  the  witness-room  opened,  and  upon 
the  threshold  was  seen  a  Avoman's  figure,  at  whose  unex- 
pected appearance  a  cry  of  amazement  rose  from  the  lips  of 
all  the  spectators  on  the  tribune,  and  all  eyes  were  aflame 
with  curiosity. 

It  was  the  queen — no  one  but  the  queen  who  was  enter- 
ing the  hall! 

It  was  her  slim,  fine  figure,  it  was  her  fresh,  young,  rosy 
countenance,  with  the  fair,  charming  oval  of  her  delicately- 
tinted  cheeks;  it  was  her  finely-cut  mouth,  with  the  full, 
lower  lips;  there  were  her  large,  grayish-blue  eyes;  her 
high  forehead;  her  beautiful,  chestnut-brown  hair,  ar- 
ranged in  exactly  the  manner  that  Leonard,  the  queen's 
hair-dresser,  was  accustomed  to  dress  hers.  The  rest  of 
her  toilet,  also,  was  precisely  like  that  of  the  queen  when 
she  appeared  in  the  gardens  of  Versailles  and  dispensed 
with  court  etiquette.  A  bright  dress  of  light  linen  flowed 
down  in  long,  broad  folds  over  her  beautiful  figure;  her 
chest  and  the  full  shoulders  were  covered  by  a  short  white 
robe  a  renfant,  and  on  the  loftily  dressed  hair  lay  a  white 
cap,  trimmed  with  lace. 


THE   TEIAL.  101 

Yes,  it  was  the  queen,  as  she  had  often  been  seen  wan- 
dering up  and  down  in  the  broad  walks  of  Versailles ;  and 
even  the  ladies  on  the  tribune,  who  often  enough  had  seen 
the  monarch  close  at  hand  and  had  spoken  with  her, 
looked  in  astonishment  at  the  entering  figure,  and  whis- 
pered, "It  is  she!  The  queen  herself  is  coming  to  give 
her  evidence.  What  folly,  what  thoughtlessness!" 

While  all  eyes  were  directed  upon  this  unexpected  figure, 
no  one  had  thought  of  the  Countess  Lamotte-Valois,  no 
one  had  noticed  how  she  shrank  back,  and  then  started 
from  her  seat,  as  if  she  wanted  to  fly  from  the  horror  which 
so  suddenly  confronted  her. 

No,  the  officer  who  stood  near  her  chair  had  noticed 
this  movement,  and  with  a  quick  and  strong  grasp  seized 
her  arm. 

"What  do  you  want,  madame?  Why  do  you  rise  from 
your  chair  after  being  told  to  sit  still,  if  you  do  not  want 
to  be  chained?" 

At  the  touch  of  the  officer,  Lamotte  had,  as  it  appeared, 
regained  her  whole  composure,  and  had  conquered  her 
alarm. 

"I  rose,"  she  said  calmly,  "to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
Queen  of  France,  like  a  good  subject;  but  as  I  see  that  no 
one  else  stands  up,  and  that  they  allow  the  queen  to  enter 
without  rising  from  their  seats,  I  will  take  mine  again." 
And  the  countess  slowly  sank  into  her  chair. 

"  Come  nearer,"  cried  President  de  L'Aigre  to  the  royal 
personage ;  and  she  stepped  forward,  allowing  her  eyes  to 
wander  unconstrainedly  through  the  hall,  and  then,  as 
she  approached  the  table,  behind  which  the  president  and 
the  judges  sat,  greeting  them  with  a  friendly  nod  and 
smile  which  caused  her  lips  to  part.  Again  there  passed 
through  the  hall  a  wave  of  amazement,  for  now,  when 
the  lady  opened  her  mouth,  the  first  dissimilarity  to  the 
queen  appeared.  Behind  her  cherry-red  lips  there  were 
two  rows  of  poor,  broken  teeth,  with  gaps  between  them, 
whereas  Marie  Antoinette  had,  on  account  of  her  fault- 
less teeth,  been  the  object  of  admiration  and  envy  to  all 
the  ladies  of  her  court. 

"Who  are  you,  madame,  and  what  are  you  called?" 
asked  the  president. 


102  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

"Who  am  I,  sir?"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  slight  flush. 
"  Good  Lord !  that  is  hard  to  answer.  I  was  a  light- 
minded  and  idle  girl,  that  did  not  like  to  work,  but  did 
like  to  live  well,  and  had  no  objection  to  dress,  and  led  a 
tolerably  easy  life,  till  one  day  my  heart  was  surprised  by 
love.  After  being  enamoured  of  my  Sergeant  George,  I 
resolved  to  lead  an  honorable  and  virtuous  life ;  and  since 
my  little  son  was  born  I  have  tried  to  be  merely  a  good 
mother  and  a  good  wife.  Do  you  now  want  to  know  what 
I  am  called?  Down  to  the  present  time  I  am  called 
Mademoiselle  Oliva.  You  had  me  arrested  in  Brussels  and 
brought  here  exactly  nine  days  before  the  appointed  time 
of  my  marriage  with  my  dear  George.  He  had  promised 
me  that  our  child  should  be  able  to  regard  us  as  regularly 
married  people,  and  he  wanted  to  keep  his  promise,  but 
you  prevented  him,  and  it  is  your  fault  that  my  dear  little 
boy  was  born  in  prison,  and  that  his  father  was  not  there 
to  greet  him.  But  you  will  confess  that  I  am  guilt}-  of 
no  crime,  and  then  you  will  fulfil  nay  wish,  and  give  me  a 
written  certificate  of  my  innocence — that  is,"  she  corrected 
herself,  blushing,  "  of  my  innocence  in  this  matter,  that  I 
may  be  able  to  justify  myself  to  my  son,  when  I  have  to 
tell  him  that  he  was  born  in  prison.  It  is  such  a  dreadful 
thing  for  a  mother  to  have  anything  that  she  is  ashamed 
to  confess  to  her  child!" 

A  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the  hall,  and  the 
ladies  upon  the  tribune  looked  with  sympathy  upon  this 
fair  woman,  whose  faithful  love  made  her  beautiful,  and 
whose  mother-feeling  gave  her  dignity. 

"  So  your  name  is  Mademoiselle  Oliva?"  asked  the  pres- 
ident. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  unfortunately  is  the  name  I  am  called 
by,"  answered  she,  sighing,  "but  as  soon  as  I  leave  the 
prison  I  shall  be  married,  and  then  I  shall  be  called  Ma- 
dame George.  For  my  child's  sake,  you  would  do  me  a 
great  kindness  now  if  you  would  call  me  madame." 

At  these  naive  words  a  smile  lighted  up  the  stern  faces 
of  the  judges,  and  sped  like  a  ray  of  sunlight  over  all  the 
countenances  of  the  spectators.  Even  the  rigid  features 
of  the  attorney-general  were  touched  for  an  instant  with 
the  glow;  only  those  of  the  Countess  Lamotte  darkened. 


THE   TRIAL.  103 

"  Your  majesty  plays  to-day  the  naive  part  of  o,paysanne 
perversee,"  cried  she,  with  a  hard,  shrill  voice.  "It  is 
well  known  that  your  majesty  loves  to  play  comedies, 
and  that  you  are  sometimes  content  with  even  the  minor 
parts.  Now,  do  not  look  at  me,  Mrs.  Queen,  with  such  a 
withering  look.  Do  not  forget  that  you  are  playing  the 
part  of  Mademoiselle  Oliva,  and  that  you  have  come  se- 
cretly from  Versailles  to  save  your  honor  and  your  dia- 
monds." 

"  Officer,"  cried  the  president,  "if  the  accused  allows 
herself  to  speak  a  single  word  Avithout  being  asked,  lock 
her  up  and  gag  her." 

The  officer  howed  in  token  of  his  unconditional  obedi- 
ence, and  drew  out  the  wooden  gag,  which  he  showed  the 
countess,  going  straight  to  her  chair. 

"I  will  comply  with  your  wish,"  said  the  president, 
turning  to  the  living  portrait  of  the  queen.  "I  will  call 
you  madame,  if  you  will  promise  me  in  return  to  answer 
all  my  questions  faithfully." 

"I  promise  you  that,  by  my  child,"  answered  Mademoi- 
selle Oliva,  bowing  slightly. 

"Tell  me,  then,  do  you  know  the  person  who  sits  in 
that  chair?" 

Mademoiselle  Oliva  cast  a  quick  look  at  Lamotte,  who 
glared  at  her  from  her  seat. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  her,"  she  said.  "  That  is,  I  do  not 
know  her  name,  I  only  know  that  she  lives  in  a  splendid 
palace,  that  she  is  very  rich,  and  has  everything  nice." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  lady?     Tell  us  that." 

"I  will  tell  you,  gentlemen,  and  I  swear  to  you  that  so 
sure  as  I  want  to  be  an  honorable  wife,  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  truth.  I  was  walking  one  day  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
when  a  tall,  slim,  gentlemanly  man,  who  had  passed  me 
several  times,  came  up  to  me,  said  some  soft  things,  and 
asked  permission  to  visit  me.  I  answered  him,  smiling, 
that  he  could  visit  me  at  once  if  he  would  take  me  into 
one  of  the  eating-houses  and  dine  with  me.  He  accepted 
my  proposition,  and  we  dined  together,  and  were  merry 
and  jolly  enough  for  a  new  acquaintance.  When  we  parted 
we  promised  to  meet  there  again  on  the  morrow,  and  so  we 
did.  After  the  second  dinner,  the  amiable  gentleman 


104  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HEE   SON. 

conducted  me  home,  and  there  told  me  that  he  was  very 
distinguished  and  influential,  that  he  had  friends  at  court, 
and  was  very  well  acquainted  with  the  king  and  queen. 
He  told  me  that  he  would  procure  for  me  powerful  patrons, 
and  told  me  that  a  very  distinguished  lady,  who  had  in- 
terested herself  in  my  behalf  through  his  description, 
would  visit  me  and  make  my  acquaintance.  On  the  next 
day  he  really  came  in  company  with  a  lady,  who  greeted 
me  very  friendly,  and  was  astonished  at  her  first  glimpse 
of  me." 

"  Who  was  that  lady?"  asked  the  president. 

Mademoiselle  pointed  with  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder. 

'  The  lady  yonder,"  said  she. 

'Are  you  sure  of  it?" 

'As  of  my  own  life,  Mr.  President." 

'  Good.     Go  on.     You  saw  the  lady  quite  frequently?" 

'  Yes,  she  visited  me  twice  more,  and  told  me  about  the 
queen,  and  the  splendid  way  they  lived  at  the  court;  she 
promised  me  that  she  would  bring  me  to  the  court  and 
make  a  great  lady  out  of  me,  if  I  would  do  what  she 
wanted  me  to  do.  I  promised  it  gladly,  and  declared  my- 
self ready  to  do  every  thing  that  she  should  order  me,  if 
she  would  keep  her  promise  and  bring  me  to  the  court, 
that  I  might  speak  with  the  king  and  the  queen." 

"  But  why  were  you  so  curious  to  go  to  the  court  and 
speak  with  the  king  and  the  queen?" 

"Why?  Good  Lord!  that  is  very  simple  and  natural. 
It  is  a  very  easy  thing  for  the  king  to  make  a  captain  out 
of  a  sergeant,  and  as  the  king,  so  people  say,  does  nothing 
but  what  the  queen  tells  him  to,  I  wanted  of  course  before 
every  thing  to  have  a  good  word  from  the  queen.  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  my  dear  George  wearing  epaulets,  and  it 
must  have  tremendously  pleased  my  boy  to  have  come  into 
the  world  the  child  of  a  captain." 

"  Did  you  tell  that  to  the  lady?" 

"  Certainly  I  told  her,  and  she  promised  me  that  the 
queen  would  undoubtedly  do  me  the  favor,  provided  that  I 
would  do  every  thing  that  she  bade  me  do  in  the  name  of 
the  queen.  She  told  me,  then,  that  the  queen  had  ordered 
her  to  seek  a  person  suitable  to  play  a  part  in  a  little 
comedy,  which  she  was  privately  preparing;  that  I  was 


THE   TRIAL.  105 

just  the  person  to  play  this  part,  and  if  I  would  do  it  well 
and  tell  nobody  in  the  world,  not  even  George,  when  he 
should  come  home  from  Brussels,  she  would  not  only  give 
me  her  help  in  the  future,  but  pay  me  fifteen  thousand 
francs  for  my  assistance.  I  consented  with  great  joy,  of 
course,  for  fifteen  thousand  francs  was  a  magnificent 
dowry  for  a  marriage,  and  I  was  very  happy  in  being  able 
to  earn  so  much  without  having  to  work  very  hard  for  it." 

"  But  did  it  not  occur  to  you  that  that  was  a  danger- 
ous game  that  they  wanted  you  to  play,  and  for  which 
they  were  going  to  pay  such  a  high  sum?" 

"  I  did  have  such  thoughts  once  in  a  while,  but  I  sup- 
pressed them  soon,  so  as  not  to  be  troubled  about  my  good 
fortune;  and  besides  that,  the  countess  assured  me  that 
every  thing  was  done  at  the  command  of  the  queen,  and 
that  it  was  the  queen  who  was  going  to  pay  the  fifteen 
thousand  francs.  That  quieted  me  completely,  for  as  an 
obedient  and  true  subject  it  was  my  duty  to  obey  the 
queen,  and  show  devotion  to  her  in  all  things,  more  par- 
ticularly when  she  was  going  to  pay  so  magnificently. 
Meantime,  I  comforted  myself  that  it  could  be  nothing 
bad  and  criminal  that  the  queen  could  order  done,  and 
the  countess  assured  me  that  too,  and  told  me  that  every 
thing  I  had  to  do  was  to  represent  another  person,  and  to 
make  a  lover  believe  that  he  was  with  his  love,  which 
would,  of  course,  please  him  immensely,  and  make  him 
very  happy.  Besides,  I  did  not  think  it  any  sin  to  do  my 
part  toward  making  an  unfortunate  lover  have  happy 
thoughts.  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  this  part,  and 
made  my  plan  to  speak  to  him  in  very  tender  and  loving 
tones." 

"  But  were  you  not  curious  to  know  for  whom  you  were 
playing  this  part,  and  what  lady  you  had  to  represent?" 

"  I  should  certainly  have  liked  very  much  to  know,  but 
the  countess  forbade  me  to  ask,  and  told  me  that  I  must 
suppress  my  curiosity;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  make  an 
effort  to  notice  nothing  at  all,  else  I  should  receive  only 
half  of  the  money;  and,  besides,  if  they  noticed  that  I 
knew  what  I  was  doing,  I  might  be  sent  to  the  Bastile.  I 
was  still  upon  that,  and  did  not  trouble  myself  about  any 
thing  further,  and  asked  nothing  more,  and  only  thought 


106  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

of  learning  my  lesson  well,  that  I  might  get  the  fifteen 
thousand  francs  for  my  marriage  portion." 

"  So  they  gave  you  a  lesson  to  learn?" 

"  Yes,  the  countess,  and  the  gentleman  who  brought  her 
to  me,  came  twice  to  me,  and  taught  me  how  I  ought  to 
walk,  how  to  hold  my  head,  to  nod,  and  reach  my  hand  to 
kiss.  After  teaching  me  this,  they  came  one  day  and  car- 
ried me  in  a  splendid  coach  to  the  house  of  the  countess. 
There  I  dined  with  them,  and  then  we  drove  to  Versailles. 
They  walked  with  me  in  the  park,  and  at  a  place  near  the 
pavilion  they  stood  still,  and  said  to  me:  'Here  is  where 
you  will  play  your  little  comedy  to-morrow;  this  is  the 
spot  which  the  queen  has  herself  appointed,  and  every 
thing  which  takes  place  is  at  the  express  command  of  her 
majesty.'  That  entirely  quieted  me,  and  I  turned  back  to 
Paris  overjoyed,  in  company  with  the  countess  and  her 
companion.  They  kept  me  that  night  in  their  beautiful 
home,  and  on  the  next  day  we  drove  again  to  Versailles, 
where  the  countess  had  a  small  suite  of  apartments.  She 
herself  dressed  me,  and  condescended  to  help  me  like  a 
waiting-maid." 

"What  kind  of  a  suit  did  she  put  upon  you?" 

"  Exactly  such  a  one  as  I  am  wearing  to-day,  only  when 
we  were  ready,  and  it  had  begun  to  grow  dark,  the  count- 
ess laid  a  white  mantle  over  me,  and  covered  my  head  with 
a  cap.  Then  she  drove  me  into  the  park,  gave  me  a  let- 
ter, and  said:  'You  will  give  this  letter  to  a  gentleman 
who  will  meet  us.'  We  went  in  silence  through  the  paths 
and  alleys  of  the  park,  and  I  confess  that  my  heart  beat 
right  anxiously,  and  that  I  had  to  think  a  great  deal  upon 
the  fifteen  thousand  francs,  in  order  to  keep  my  courage 
up." 

"  Did  you  go  with  the  countess  alone,  or  was  some  one 
else  with  you?" 

"  The  gentleman  who  first  made  my  acquaintance,  and 
who  was,  as  I  believe,  the  husband  of  the  countess,  accom- 
panied us.  After  we  had  walked  about  for  a  while,  he 
stopped  and  said:  'Now  you  must  walk  alone;  I  shall, 
however,  be  there  at  the  right  time  to  make  a  noise,  and 
to  put  the  amorous  lover  to  flight. '  Then  he  stepped  into 
the  thicket,  and  we  were  alone.  On  this  the  countess  gave 


THE   TRIAL.  107 

me  a  rose,  and  said:  'You  will  give  this  rose  with  the  let- 
ter to  the  person,  and  s&y  nothing  more  than  this.  You 
know  what  that  signifies. '  The  countess  made  me  repeat 
that  three  times,  and  then  said:  'You  need  not  add  a 
single  word  to  that.  The  queen  herself  has  selected  these 
words,  and  she  will  hear  whether  you  repeat  them  cor- 
rectly, for  she  will  stand  behind  you,  and  be  a  spectator  of 
the  whole  scene. '  On  this  the  countess  withdrew,  leading 
me  into  a  thicket,  and  soon  the  gentleman  came,  and  I 
came  out  of  the  place  of  my  concealment.  After  he  had 
made  me  some  very  deep  reverences,  I  handed  him  the 
rose  and  the  letter,  and  repeated  the  very  words  the  count- 
ess had  taught  me.  The  gentleman  sank  upon  his  knee, 
and  kissed  the  hand  which  I  extended  with  the  rose.  At 
this  moment  we  heard  a  noise,  as  if  of  men's  steps  ap- 
proaching, and  the  countess  came  running  up.  'For  God's 
sake!'  she  cried,  'we  are  watched!  Quick,  quick,  come!' 
and  she  drew  me  hurriedly  away.  We  left  the  garden, 
and  returned  to  the  dwelling  of  the  countess,  and  there  I 
remained  alone,  for  the  countess  and  her  husband  said, 
laughing,  that  they  must  go  and  console  the  old  gentle- 
man for  having  so  short  a  rendezvous,  and  for  being  so 
quickly  disturbed.  I  asked  whether  I  had  done  my  part 
well,  and  the  countess  said  that  the  queen  was  very  well 
satisfied  with  me — that  she  had  stood  in  the  thicket,  and 
had  observed  all.  Early  next  morning  we  rode  back  to 
Paris,  and  when  we  had  arrived  at  their  hotel,  the  countess 
paid  me  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  all  correctly ;  but  she 
made  this  condition,  that  I  must  go  to  see  my  George  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  that  till  I  should  go,  I  must  remain 
in  a  little  room  in  her  house.  I  wrote  at  once  to  George 
and  announced  my  coming,  and  the  time  seemed  endless 
till  I  received  his  answer,  although  the  countess  paid  a 
great  deal  of  attention  to  me,  and  always  invited  me  to  her 
pelits  soupers,  where  we  had  a  right  merry  time.  As  soon 
as  the  answer  had  come  from  my  George,  who  wrote  me 
that  he  was  expecting  me,  I  took  my  departure  in  an 
elegant  post-carriage,  like  a  lady;  for  the  countess  was  not 
willing  that  I  should  travel  in  a  diligence,  and  her  hus- 
band had  paid  in  advance  for  all  relays  of  horses  as  far  as 
Brussels,  so  that  I  had  a  very  agreeable,  comfortable  ride. 
8 


108  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

And  this,  I  think,  is  all  that  I  have  to  relate,  and  my  son 
will  not  have  an  unquiet  night,  for  I  have  kept  my  word, 
and  told  every  thing  truthfully." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  add  to  this?" 

"What  could  I  add  to  this?"  asked  Oliva,  sighing. 
"You  know  as  well  as  I  the  end  of  my  history.  You 
know,  that  a  fortnight  after  that  little  scene  at  Versailles, 
I  was  arrested  by  police  agents  in  Brussels,  and  brought  to 
Paris.  You  know,  also,  that  I  swore  to  take  my  life  if  my 
dear  George  were  not  allowed  to  visit  me  daily  in  prison. 
You  know  that  my  dear  child  was  born  in  prison,  and  that 
it  is  now  half  a  year  old,  while  his  poor  mother  is  accused, 
and  not  yet  gained  her  freedom.  You  know  that  all! 
What  have  I  that  I  could  add  to  this?  I  beg  you,  let  me 
go  and  return  to  my  child,  for  my  little  George  is  certainly 
awake,  and  his  father  does  not  know  how  to  quiet  him 
when  he  cries." 

"You  may  go  to  your  child,"  said  the  president,  with  a 
gentle  smile.  "  Officer,  conduct  Madame  Oliva  back  to 
the  witness-room." 

Madame  Oliva  expressed  her  thanks  for  this  by  throw- 
ing a  kiss  of  the  hand  to  the  president  and  the  judges,  and 
then  hastily  followed  the  officer,  who  opened  the  door  of 
the  adjoining  room.  As  it  swung  back,  a  loud  cry  of  a 
child  was  heard,  and  Madame  Oliva,  who  was  standing 
upon  the  threshold,  turned  her  fair  face  back  to  the  presi- 
dent with  a  triumphant  expression,  and  smiled. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  so?"  she  cried.  " My  son  is  call- 
ing, for  he  is  longing  for  me.  I  am  coming,  my  little 
George,  I  am  coming!" 

She  sprang  forward,  and  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

"You  have  heard  the  statements  of  the  witness,"  said 
the  president,  addressing  Countess  Lamotte.  "  You  see 
now  that  we  have  the  proof  of  the  ignominious  and  treach- 
erous intrigues  which  you  have  conducted.  Will  you,  in 
the  face  of  such  proofs,  still  endeavor  to  deny  the  facts 
which  have  been  given  in  evidence?" 

"I  have  seen  neither  proofs  nor  facts,"  answered  La- 
motte, scornfully.  "  I  have  only  been  amazed  at  the  self- 
possession  with  which  the  queen  goes  through  her  part, 
and  wondered  how  far  her  light-mindedness  will  carry  her. 


THE   TRIAL.  109 

She  is  truly  an  adroit  player,  and  she  has  played  the  part 
of  Madame  Oliva  so  well,  that  not  a  motion  nor  a  tone 
would  have  betrayed  the  queen." 

"  How,  madame?"  asked  the  president,  in  amazement. 
"  Do  you  pretend  to  assert  that  this  witness,  who  has  just 
left  the  hall,  is  not  Madame  Oliva,  but  another  person? 
Do  you  not  know  that  this  witness,  this  living  portrait  of 
the  queen,  has  for  ten  months  been  detained  at  the  Bastile, 
and  that  no  change  in  the  person  is  possible?" 

"I  only  know  that  the  queen  has  played  her  part  well," 
said  Lamotte,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "She  has  even 
gone  so  far,  in  her  desire  to  show  a  difference  between 
Madame  Oliva  and  the  queen,  as  to  make  a  very  great  sac- 
rifice, and  to  disclose  a  secret  of  her  beauty.  She  has  laid 
aside  her  fine  false  teeth,  and  let  us  see  her  natural  ones, 
in  order  that  we  may  see  a  difference  between  the  queen 
and  Madame  Oliva.  Confess  only,  gentlemen,  that  it  is  a 
rare  and  comical  sight  to  have  a  queen  so  like  a  courtesan, 
that  you  can  only  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other  by 
the  teeth." 

And  the  countess  broke  out  into  scornful  laughter,  which 
found  a  loud  echo  in  some  of  the  veiled  ladies  in  the 
tribune. 

"Moderate  your  pleasantry,  madame,"  commanded  the 
president.  "  Kemember  that  you  are  in  a  grave  and  peril- 
ous situation,  and  that  justice  hangs  over  you  like  the 
sword  of  Damocles.  You  have  already  invoked  your  fate, 
in  calling  God  to  witness  that  the  innocent  shall  not  suffer 
for  the  guilty,  and  now  this  word  is  fulfilled  in  yourself. 
The  whole  edifice  of  your  lies  and  intrigues  crumbles  over 
you,  and  will  cover  your  head  with  the  dust  of  eternal 
infamy." 

"  I  experience  nothing  of  it  yet,  God  be  thanked,"  cried 
Lamotte,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  You  will  be  punished  for  these  shameless  deeds  sooner 
than  you  expected,"  answered  the  president,  solemnly. 
"  You  said  that  you  wanted  proof  that  that  was  not  the 
queen  who  gave  the  rendezvous  to  the  cardinal  in  Ver- 
sailles ;  that  the  promissory  note  was  not  subscribed  by  the 
queen,  and  that  the  letters  to  the  cardinal  were  not  writ- 
ten by  her.  If  the  proof  of  this  were  to  be  displayed  to 


110  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

you,  it  would  be  right  to  accuse  you  of  high-treason.  We  ' 
have  already  exhibited  the  proof  that  it  was  not  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette  who  made  an  appointment  with  the  car- 
dinal in  Versailles,  but  that  it  was  the  comedy  planned  and 
brought  out  by  yourself,  with  which  you  deceived  the  car- 
dinal, and  made  him  believe  that  he  was  going  to  buy  the 
necklace  of  which  you  intended  to  rob  him.  It  only  re- 
mains to  show  you  that  the  subscription  of  the  queen  and 
the  letters  to  the  cardinal  were  forged  by  you." 

"And  certainly,"  cried  the  countess,  "I  am  very  curious 
to  have  you  exhibit  the  proofs  of  this !" 

"That  is  a  very  simple  matter,"  answered  the  president, 
calmly.  "  We  confront  you  with  him  who  at  your  direc- 
tion imitated  the  handwriting  of  the  queen  and  wrote  the 
letters.  Officer,  summon  the  last  witness!" 

The  officer  threw  open  the  door  which  led  to  the  next 
room.  A  breathless  silence  prevailed  in  the  great  hall; 
every  one  was  intensely  eager  to  see  this  last  witness  who 
was  to  uncover  the  web  of  frauds  of  the  countess's  spin- 
ning. The  great  burning  eyes  of  the  accused,  too,  were 
turned  to  this  door,  and  her  compressed  lips  and  her  pierc- 
ing glance  disclosed  a  little  of  the  anxiety  of  her  soul, 
although  her  bearing  and  manner  were  still  impudent  and 
scornful. 

And  now  the  door  opened,  and  a  cry  of  amazement  and 
rage  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  countess. 

"Eetaux  de  Vilette,"  cried  she  madly,  doubling  up  her 
little  hands  into  fists  and  extending  them  toward  the  man 
who  now  entered  the  hall.  "  Shameful,  shameful !  He 
has  turned  against  me!" 

And  losing  for  a  moment  her  composure,  she  sank  back 
upon  the  seat  from  which  she  had  risen  in  her  fright.  A 
deathly  paleness  covered  her  cheeks,  and,  almost  swooning, 
she  rested  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"  You  now  see  that  God  is  just,"  said  the  president,  after 
a  brief  pause.  "  Your  own  conscience  testifies  against  you 
and  compels  you  to  confess  yourself  guilty." 

She  sprang  up  and  compelled  herself  to  resume  her  self- 
possessed  manner,  and  to  appear  cool  and  defiant  as  before. 
"No!"  she  said,  "I  do  not  confess  myself  guilty,  and  I 
ha,ve  no  reason  to!  My  heart  only  shuddered  when  I  saw 


THE   TRIAL.  Ill 

this  man  enter,  whom  I  have  saved  from  hunger,  over- 
whelmed with  kindness,  and  whom  my  enemies  have  now 
brought  up  to  make  him  testify  against  me!  But  it  is 
over — I  am  now  ready  to  see  new  lies,  new  infamies  heaped 
upon  me:  M.  Retaux  de  Vilette  may  now  speak  on,  his 
calumnies  will  only  drop  from  the  undented  mail  of  my 
conscience!" 

And  with  possessed  bearing  and  an  air  of  proud  scorn, 
Countess  Lamotte  looked  at  the  man  who,  bowing  and 
trembling,  advanced  by  the  side  of  the  officer  to  the  green 
table,  and  sedulously  shunned  meeting  the  eyes  of  La- 
motte, which  rested  on  him  like  two  fiery  daggers. 

The  president  propounded  the  usual  questions  as  to 
name  and  rank.  He  answered  that  his  name  was  Retaux 
de  Vilette,  and  that  he  was  steward  and  secretary  of  the 
Countess  Lamotte- Valois.  On  further  questioning,  he  de- 
clared that  after  the  count  and  the  countess  had  been 
arrested  he  had  fled,  and  had  gone  to  Geneva  in  order  to 
await  the  end  of  the  trial.  But  as  it  lingered  so  long,  he 
had  attempted  to  escape  to  England,  but  had  been  arrested. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  escape?"  asked  the  attorney- 
general. 

"  Because  I  feared  being  involved  in  the  affairs  of  the 
Countess  Lamotte,"  answered  Retaux  de  Vilette,  in  low 
tones. 

"  Say  rather  you  knew  that  you  would  be  involved  with 
them.  You  have  at  a  previous  examination  deposed  cir- 
cumstantially, and  you  cannot  take  back  what  you  testified 
then,  for  your  denial  would  be  of  no  avail.  Answer, 
therefore:  What  have  you  done?  Why  were  you  afraid 
of  being  involved  in  the  trial  of  Countess  Lamotte?" 

"Because  I  had  done  a  great  wrong,"  answered  Retaux, 
with  vehemence.  "Because  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be 
led  astray  by  the  promises,  the  seductive  arts,  the  decep- 
tions of  the  countess.  I  was  poor;  I  lived  unseen  and 
unnoticed,  and  I  wished  to  be  rich,  honored,  and  distin- 
guished. The  countess  promised  me  all  this.  She  would 
persuade  the  cardinal  to  advance  me  to  honor ;  she  would 
introduce  me  to  the  court,  and  through  her  means  I  should 
become  rich  and  sought  after.  I  believed  all  this,  and 
like  her  devoted  slave  I  did  all  that  she  asked  of  me." 


112  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"Slavish  soul!"  cried  the  countess,  with  an  expression 
of .  unspeakable  scorn. 

"What  did  the  countess  desire  of  you?"  asked  the  pres- 
ident. "  What  did  you  do  in  her  service?" 

"  I  wrote  the  letters  which  were  intended  for  the  cardi- 
nal," answered  Retaux  de  Vilette.  "The  countess  com- 
posed them,  and  I  wrote  them  in  the  handwriting  of  the 
queen." 

"  How  did  you  know  her  handwriting?" 

"  The  countess  gave  me  a  book  in  which  a  letter  of  the 
queen's  was  printed  in  exact  imitation  of  her  hand.  I 
copied  the  letters  as  nearly  as  I  could,  and  so  worked  out 
my  sentences." 

"  He  lies,  he  lies!"  cried  the  countess,  with  a  fierce  ges- 
ture. 

"  And  how  was  it  with  the  promissory  note  to  the  jewellers, 
Bohmer  and  Bassenge?  Do  you  know  about  that?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Eetaux,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  do  know  about 
it,  for  I  wrote  it  at  the  direction  of  the  countess,  and 
added  the  signature." 

"  Had  you  a  copy?" 

"Yes,  the  signature  of  the  fac-simile." 

"  In  the  printed  letter  was  there  the  subscription  which 
you  inserted?" 

"No,  there  was  only  the  name  'Marie  Antoinette,'  noth- 
ing further;  but  the  countess  thought  that  this  was  only  a 
confidential  way  of  writing  her  name,  as  a  daughter  might 
use  it  in  a  letter  to  a  mother  (it  was  a  letter  written  by 
the  queen  to  her  mother),  but  that  in  a  document  of  a 
more  business-like  character  there  must  be  an  official  sig- 
nature. We  had  a  long  discussion  about  it,  which  resulted 
in  our  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  proper  form 
would  be  'Marie  Antoinette  of  France.'  So  I  practised 
this  several  times,  and  finally  wrote  it  on  the  promissory 
note." 

"He  lies!"  cried  the  countess,  stamping  on  the  floor. 
"  He  is  a  born  liar  and  slanderer." 

"  I  am  prepared  to  show  the  proof  at  once  that  I  speak 
the  truth,"  said  Retaux  de  Vilette.  "If  you  will  give  me 
writing-materials  I  will  write  the  signature  of  the  queen 


THE   TRIAL.  113 

in  the  manner  in  which  it  is  written  on  the  promissory 
note." 

The  president  gave  the  order  for  the  requisite  articles 
to  be  brought  and  laid  on  a  side-table.  Ketaux  took  the 
pen,  and  with  a  rapid  hand  wrote  some  words,  which  he 
gave  to  the  officer  to  be  carried  to  the  president. 

The  latter  took  the  paper  and  compared  it  with  the 
words  which  were  written  on  the  promissory  note.  He 
then  passed  the  two  to  the  attorney-general,  and  he  to  the 
judge  next  to  him.  The  papers  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
and,  after  they  came  back  to  the  president  again,  he  rose 
from  his  seat : 

"  I  believe  that  the  characters  on  this  paper  precisely 
accord  with  those  on  the  note.  The  witness  has  given 
what  seems  to  me  irrefutable  testimony  that  he  was  the 
writer  of  that  signature,  as  well  as  of  the  letters  to  the  car- 
dinal. He  was  the  culpable  instrument  of  the  criminal 
Lamotte-Valois.  Those  of  the  judges  who  a*re  of  my 
opinion  will  rise." 

The  judges  arose  as  one  man. 

The  countess  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  fell,  seized  with 
fearful  spasms,  to  the  ground. 

"I  declare  the  investigation  and  hearings  ended,"  said 
the  president,  covering  his  head.  "  Let  the  accused  and 
the  witnesses  be  removed,  and  the  spectators'  tribune  be 
vacated.  We  will  adjourn  to  the  council-room  to  prepare 
the  sentence,  which  will  be  given  to-morrow." 


BOOK  II. 

CHAPTEE    VII. 

THE    BAD    OMEN 

THE  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  That  endlessly  long 
day,  that  31st  of  August,  1786,  was  coming  to  a  conclu- 
sion. All  Paris  had  awaited  it  with  breathless  excitement, 
with  feverish  impatience.  No  one  had  been  able  to  attend 
to  his  business.  The  stores  were  closed,  the  workshops  of 
the  artisans  were  empty ;  even  in  the  restaurants  and  cafes 
all  was  still;  the  cooks  had  nothing  to  do,  and  let  the  fire 
go  out,  for  it  seemed  as  if  all  Paris  had  lost  its  appetite — 
as  if  nobody  had  time  to  eat. 

And  in  truth,  on  this  day,  Paris  had  no  hunger  for  food 
that  could  satisfy  the  body.  The  city  was  hungry  only  for 
news,  it  longed  for  food  which  would  satisfy  its  curiosity. 

And  the  news  which  would  appease  its  craving  was  to 
come  from  the  court-room  of  the  prison!  It  was  to  that 
quarter  that  Paris  looked  for  the  stilling  of  its  hunger,  the 
satisfying  of  its  desires. 

The  judges  were  assembled  in  the  hall  of  the  prison  to 
pronounce  the  decisive  sentence  in  the  necklace  trial,  and 
to  announce  to  all  France,  yes,  all  Europe,  whether  the 
Queen  of  France  was  innocent  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  His 
representatives  on  earth,  or  whether  a  shade  of  suspicion 
was  thenceforth  to  rest  upon  that  lofty  brow ! 

At  a  very  early  hour  of  the  morning,  half-past  five,  the 
judges  of  the  high  court  of  Parliament,  forty-nine  in 
number,  gathered  at  the  council-room  in  order  to  pro- 
nounce sentence. 

.At  the  same  early  hour,  an  immense,  closely-thronged 
crowd  gathered  in  the  broad  square  in  front  of  the  prison, 


THE   BAD    OMEN.  115 

and  gazed  in  breathless  expectation  at  the  great  gate  of  the 
building,  hoping  every  minute  that  the  judges  would  come 
out,  and  that  they  should  learn  the  sentence. 

But  the  day  wore  on,  and  still  the  gates  remained  shut ; 
no  news  came  from  the  council-room  to  enlighten  the  curi- 
osity of  the  crowd  that  filled  the  square  and  the  adjacent 
streets. 

Here  and  there  the  people  began  to  complain,  and  loud 
voices  were  heard  grumbling  at  the  protracted  delay,  the 
long  deliberations  of  the  judges.  Here  and  there  faces 
were  seen  full  of  scornful  defiance,  full  of  laughing  malice, 
working  their  way  through  the  crowd,  and  now  and  then 
dropping  stinging  words,  which  provoked  to  still  greater 
impatience.  All  the  orators  of  the  clubs  and  of  the  secret 
societies  were  there  among  the  crowd,  all  the  secret  and 
open  enemies  of  the  queen  had  sent  their  instruments 
thither  to  work  upon  the  people  with  poisonous  words  and 
mocking  observations,  and  to  turn  public  opinion  in  ad- 
vance against  the  queen,  even  in  case  the  judges  did  not 
condemn  her ;  that  is,  if  they  did  not  declare  the  cardinal 
innocent  of  conspiracy  against  the  sovereign,  and  contempt 
of  the  majesty  of  the  queen. 

It  was  known  that  in  his  resume,  the  attorney-general 
had  alluded  to  the  punishment  of  the  cardinal.  That  was 
the  only  news  which  had  worked  its  way  out  of  the  court- 
room. Some  favored  journalist,  or  some  friend  of  the  queen, 
had  heard  this;  it  spread  like  the  wind  all  over  Paris,  and  in 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  copies  the  words  of  the 
attorney-general  were  distributed. 

His  address  purported  to  run  as  follows :  that  "  Cardinal 
de  Eohan  is  indicted  on  the  accusation,  and  must  answer 
the  Parliament  and  the  attorney-general  respecting  the 
following  charges :  of  audaciously  mixing  himself  up  with 
the  affairs  of  the  necklace,  and  still  more  audaciously  in 
supposing  that  the  queen  would  make  an  appointment 
with  him  by  night;  and  that  for  this  he  would  ask  the 
pardon  of  the  king  and  the  queen  in  presence  of  the  whole 
court.  Further,  the  cardinal  is  enjoined  to  lay  down  his 
office  as  grand  almoner  within  a  certain  time,  to  remove 
to  a  certain  distance  from  the  royal  residence  and  not  to 
visit  the  places  where  the  royal  family  may  be  living,  and 


116  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

lastly,  to  remain  in  prison  till  the  complete  termination  of 
the  trial." 

The  friends  and  dependants  of  the  cardinal,  the  enemies 
and  persecutors  of  the  queen,  received  this  decision  of  the 
attorney-general  with  vexation  and  anger;  they  found 
fault  with  the  servility  of  the  man  who  would  suffer  the 
law  to  bow  before  the  throne ;  they  made  dishonorable  re- 
marks and  calumnious  innuendoes  about  the  queen,  who, 
with  her  coquetry  and  the  amount  received  from  the 
jewels,  had  gained  over  the  judges,  and  who  would  perhaps 
have  appointed  a  rendezvous  with  every  one  of  them  in 
order  to  gain  him  over  to  her  side. 

"Even  if  the  judges  clear  her,"  cried  the  sharp  voice  of 
Marat  from  the  heart  of  the  crowd,  "  the  people  will  pass 
sentence  upon  her.  The  people  are  always  right;  the  peo- 
ple cannot  be  bribed — they  are  like  God  in  this ;  and  the 
people  will  not  disown  their  verdict  before  the  beautiful 
eyes  and  the  seductive  smiles  of  the  Austrian  woman. 
The  people  will  not  be  made  fools  of;  they  will  not  believe 
in  the  story  of  the  counterfeited  letters  and  the  forged 
signature." 

"No,"  shouted  the  crowd,  laughing  in  derision,  "we 
will  not  believe  it.  The  queen  wrote  the  letters;  her 
majesty  understands  how  to  write  love-letters!" 

"  The  queen  loves  to  have  a  hand  in  all  kinds  of  non- 
sense," thundered  the  brewer  Santerre,  in  another  group. 
"She  wanted  to  see  whether  a  pretty  girl  from  the  street 
could  play  the  part  of  the  Queen  of  France,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  wanted  to  avenge  herself  upon  the  cardinal 
because  she  knew  that  he  once  found  fault  with  her  before 
her  mother  the  empress,  on  account  of  her  light  and  dis- 
reputable behavior,  and  the  bad  manners  which,  as  the 
dauphiness,  she  would  introduce  into  this  court.  Since 
then  she  has  with  her  glances,  her  smiles,  and  her  appar- 
ent anger,  so  worked  upon  the  cardinal  as  to  make  him 
fall  over  ears  in  love  with  the  beautiful,  pouting  queen. 
And  that  was  just  what  she  wanted,  for  now  she  could 
avenge  herself.  She  appointed  a  rendezvous  with  the  car- 
dinal, and  while  she  secretly  looked  on  the  scene  in  the 
thicket,  she  allowed  the  pretty  Mademoiselle  Oliva  to  play 
her  part.  And  you  see  that  it  is  not  such  a  difficult  thing 


THE   BAD   OMEN.  117 

to  represent  a  queen,  for  Mademoiselle  Oliva  performed 
her  part  so  well  that  the  cardinal  was  deceived,  and  took  a 
girl  from  the  streets  to  be  the  Queen  of  France." 

"  Oh,  better  times  are  coming,  better  times  are  coming!" 
cried  Simon  the  cobbler,  who  was  close  by,  with  his  coarse 
laugh.  "  The  cardinal  took  a  girl  from  the  streets  for  the 
Queen  of  France ;  but  wait  a  little  and  we  shall  see  the 
time  when  she  will  have  to  sweep  the  streets  with  a  broom, 
that  the  noble  people  may  walk  across  with  dry  feet!" 

In  the  loud  laugh  with  which  the  crowd  greeted  this 
remark  of  the  cobbler,  was  mingled  one  single  cry  of  anger, 
which,  however,  was  overborne  by  the  rough  merriment  of 
the  mass.  It  came  from  the  lips  of  a  man  in  simple  citi- 
zen's costume,  who  had  plunged  into  the  mob  and  worked 
his  way  forward  with  strong  arms,  in  order  to  reach  a 
place  as  near  as  possible  to  the  entrance-door  of  the  prison, 
and  to  be  among  the  first  to  learn  the  impending  sentence. 

No  one,  as  just  said,  had  heard  this  cry;  no  one  had 
troubled  himself  about  this  young  man,  with  the  bold  de- 
fiant face,  who,  with  shrugged  shoulders,  was  listening  to 
the  malicious  speeches  which  were  uttered  all  around  him, 
and  who  replied  to  them  all  with  flaming  looks  of  anger, 
pressing  his  lips  closely  together,  in  order  to  hold  back  the 
words  which  could  hardly  be  suppressed. 

He  succeeded  at  last  in  reaching  the  very  door  of  the 
prison,  and  stood  directing  his  eyes  thither  with  gloomy 
looks  of  curiosity. 

His  whole  soul  lay  in  this  look;  he  heard  nothing  of  the 
mocking  speeches  which  echoed  around  him ;  he  saw  noth- 
ing of  what  took  place  about  him.  He  saw  only  this  fatal 
door;  he  only  heard  the  noises  which  proceeded  from 
within  the  prison. 

At  last,  after  long  waiting,  and  when  the  sun  had  set, 
the  door  opened  a  little,  and  a  man  came  out.  The  peo- 
ple who,  at  his  appearance,  had  broken  into  a  loud  cry  of 
delight,  were  silent  when  it  was  seen  that  it  was  not  the 
officer  who  would  announce  the  verdict  with  his  stentorian 
voice,  but  that  it  was  only  one  of  the  ordinary  servants  of 
the  court,  who  had  been  keeping  watch  at  the  outer  gate. 

This  man  ascended  with  an  indifferent  air  the  steps  of 
the  staircase,  and  to  the  loud  questions  which  were  hurled 


118  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

at  him  by  the  crowd,  whether  the  cardinal  were  declared 
innocent,  he  answered  quietly,  "  I  do  not  know.  But  I 
think  the  officer  will  soon  make  his  appearance.  My  time 
is  up,  and  I  am  going  home,  for  I  am  half  dead  with  hunger 
and  thirst." 

"  Let  the  poor  hungry  mango  through,"  cried  the  young 
man,  pressing  up  to  him.  "  Only  see  how  exhausted  he  is. 
Come,  old  fellow,  give  me  your  hand ;  support  yourself  on 
me." 

And  he  took  the  man  by  the  arm,  and  with  his  powerful 
elbows  forced  a  way  through  the  crowd.  The  people  let 
them  pass,  and  directed  their  attention  again  to  the  door 
of  the  prison. 

"The  verdict  is  pronounced?"  asked  the  young  man, 
softly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Toulan,"  he  whispered,  "the  councillor  gave 
me  just  now,  as  I  was  handing  him  a  glass  of  water,  the 
paper  on  which  he  had  written  it." 

"Give  it  to  me,  John,  but  so  that  nobody  can  see; 
otherwise  they  will  suspect  what  the  paper  contains,  and 
they  will  all  grab  at  it  and  tear  it  in  bits." 

The  servant  slid,  with  a  quick  motion,  a  little  folded 
paper  into  the  hand  of  the  young  man,  who  thanked  him 
for  it  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  and  then  quickly  dropped 
his  arm,  and  forced  his  way  in  another  direction  through 
the  crowd.  Soon,  thanks  to  his  youth  and  his  skill,  he 
had  worked  through  the  dense  mass ;  then  with  a  flying 
step  he  sped  through  the  street  next  to  the  square,  then 
more  swiftly  still  through  the  side  streets  and  alleys,  till 
he  reached  the  gate  that  led  out  to  the  street  of  Versailles. 
Outside  of  this  there  was  a  young  man  in  a  blue  blouse, 
who,  in  an  idle  and  listless  manner,  was  leading  a  bridled 
horse  up  and  down  the  road. 

"Halloo,  Richard,  come  here!"  cried  the  young  man. 

"  Ah!  Mr.  Toulan,"  shouted  the  lad  in  the  blouse,  run- 
ning up  with  the  horse.  "You  have  come  at  last,  Mr. 
Toulan.  I  have  been  already  waiting  eight  hours  for  you." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  franc  for  every  hour,"  said  Mr.  Tou- 
lan, swinging  himself  into  the  saddle.  "  Now  go  home, 
Richard,  and  greet  my  sweetheart,  if  you  see  her." 

He  gave  his  horse  a  smart  stroke,  pressed  the  spurs  into 


THE    BAD   OMEN.  119 

his  flanks,  and  the  powerful  creature  sped  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow  along  the  road  to  Versailles. 

In  Versailles,  too,  and  in  the  royal  palace,  this  day  had 
been  awaited  with  anxious  expectations.  The  king,  after 
ending  his  daily  duties  with  his  ministers,  had  gone  to 
his  workshop  in  order  to  work  with  his  locksmith,  Girard, 
upon  a  new  lock,  whose  skilful  construction  was  an  inven- 
tion of  the  king. 

The  queen,  too,  had  not  left  her  room  the  whole  day, 
and  even  her  friend,  the  Duchess  Julia  de  Polignac,  had 
not  been  able  to  cheer  up  the  queen  by  her  pleasant  talk. 

At  last,  when  she  saw  that  all  her  efforts  were  vain,  and 
that  nothing  could  dissipate  the  sadness  of  the  queen,  the 
duchess  had  made  the  proposition  to  go  to  Trianon,  and 
there  to  call  together  the  circle  of  her  intimate  friends. 

But  the  queen  sorrowfully  shook  her  head,  and  gazed  at 
the  duchess  with  a  troubled  look. 

"You  speak  of  the  circle  of  my  friends,"  she  said. 
"  Ah !  the  circle  of  those  whom  I  considered  my  friends  is 
so  rent  and  broken,  that  scarcely  any  torn  fragments  of  it 
remain,  and  I  fear  to  bring  them  together  again,  for  I 
know  that  what  once  is  broken  cannot  be  mended  again." 

"  And  so  does  your  majesty  not  believe  in  your  friends 
any  more?"  asked  the  duchess,  reproachfully.  "Do  you 
doubt  us?  Do  you  doubt  me?" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  you  all,  and,  before  all  things  else,  not 
you,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  lingering,  tender  look. 
"  I  only  doubt  the  possibility  of  a  queen's  having  faithful 
friends.  I  always  forgot,  when  I  was  with  my  friends, 
that  I  was  the  queen,  but  they  never  forgot  it." 

"Madame,  they  ought  never  to  forget  it,"  replied  the 
duchess,  softly.  "  With  all  their  love  for  your  majesty, 
your  friends  ought  never  to  forget  that  reverence  is  due 
you  as  much  as  love,  and  subjection  as  much  as  friendship. 
They  ought  never  to  make  themselves  your  majesty's 
equals;  and  if  your  majesty,  in  the  grace  of  your  fair  and 
gentle  heart,  designs  to  condescend  to  us  and  make  your- 
self like  us,  yet  we  ought  never  to  be  so  thoughtless  as  to 
raise  ourselves  to  you,  and  want  to  make  ourselves  the 
equals  of  our  queen." 

"Oh,  Julia!  you  pain  me — you  pain  me  unspeakably," 


120  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

sighed  Marie  Antoinette,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
as  if  she  wanted  to  keep  back  the  tears  which  would  mount 
into  her  eyes. 

"Your  majesty  knows,"  continued  the  duchess,  with  her 
gentle,  and  yet  terribly  quiet  manner,  "your  majesty 
knows  how  modestly  I  make  use  of  the  great  confidence 
which  you  most  graciously  bestow  upon  me;  how  seldom 
and  how  tremblingly  my  lips  venture  to  utter  the  dear 
name  of  my  queen,  of  whom  I  may  rightly  talk  only  in 
intimate  converse  with  your  exalted  mother  and  your  royal 
husband.  Your  majesty  knows  further — " 

"Oh!  I  know  all,  all,"  interrupted  the  queen,  sadly. 
"  I  know  that  it  is  not  the  part  of  a  queen  to  be  happy,  to 
love,  to  be  loved,  to  have  friends.  I  know  that  you  all, 
whom  I  have  so  tenderly  loved,  feel  yourselves  more  terri- 
fied than  benefited;  I  know,  that  with  this  confession, 
happiness  has  withdrawn  from  me.  I  look  into  the  future 
and  see  the  dark  clouds  which  are  descending,  and  threaten- 
ing us  with  a  tempest.  I  see  all;  I  have  no  illusions  more. 
The  fair  days  are  all  past — the  sunshine  of  Trianon,  and 
the  fragrance  of  its  flowers." 

"  And  will  your  majesty  not  go  there  to-day?"  asked  the 
duchess.  "  It  is  such  beautiful  weather,  the  sun  shines  so 
splendidly,  and  we  shall  have  such  a  glorious  sunset." 

"A  glorious  sunset!"  repeated  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a 
bitter  smile.  "  A  queen  is  at  least  allowed  to  see  the  sun 
go  down ;  etiquette  has  not  forbidden  a  queen  to  see  the 
sun  set  and  night  approach.  But  the  poor  creature  is  not 
allowed  to  see  the  sun  rise,  and  rejoice  in  the  beauty  of 
the  dawn.  I  have  once,  since  I  was  a  queen,  seen  the  sun 
rise,  and  all  the  world  cried  'Murder,'  and  counted  it  a 
crime,  and  all  France  laughed  at  the  epigrams  and  jests 
with  which  my  friends  punished  me  for  the  crime  that  the 
queen  of  France,  with  her  court,  had  seen  the  sun  rise. 
And  now  you  want  to  allow  me  to  see  it  set,  but  I  will  not; 
I  will  not  look  at  this  sad  spectacle  of  coming  night.  In 
me  it  is  night,  and  I  feel  the  storms  which  are  drawing 
nigh.  Go,  Julia,  leave  me  alone,  for  you  can  see  that 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done  with  me  to-day.  I  cannot 
laugh,  I  cannot  be  merry.  Go,  for  my  sadness  might  in- 
fect you,  and  that  would  make  me  doubly  sad." 


THE    BAD   OMEN.  121 

The  duchess  did  not  reply;  she  only  made  a  deep  rever- 
ence, and  went  with  light,  inaudible  step  over  the  carpet 
to  the  door.  The  queen's  face  had  been  turned  away,  but 
as  the  light  sound  of  the  door  struck  her  ear,  she  turned 
quickly  around  and  saw  that  she  was  alone. 

"She  has  left  me — she  has  really  gone,"  sighed  the 
queen,  bitterly.  "  Oh !  she  is  like  all  the  rest,  she  never 
loved  me.  But  who  does  love  me?"  asked  she,  in  despair. 
"  Who  is  there  in  the  world  that  loves  me,  and  forgets  that 
I  am  the  queen?  My  God!  my  heart  cries  for  love,  yearns 
for  friendship,  and  has  never  found  them.  And  they 
make  this  yearning  of  mine  a  crime;  they  accuse  me  that 
I  have  a  heart.  0  my  God!  have  pity  upon  me.  Veil 
at  least  my  eyes,  that  I  may  not  see  the  faithlessness  of 
my  friends.  Sustain  at  least  my  faith  in  the  friendship  of 
my  Julia.  Let  me  not  have  the  bitterness  of  feeling  that 
I  am  alone,  inconsolably  alone." 

She  pressed  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  sank  upon 
a  chair,  and  sat  long  there,  motionless,  and  wholly  given 
over  to  her  sad,  bitter  feelings. 

After  a  long  time  she  let  her  hands  fall  from  her  face, 
and  looked  around  with  a  pained,  confused  look.  The 
sun  had  gone  down,  it  began  to  grow  dark,  and  Marie 
Antoinette  shuddered  within  herself. 

"By  this  time  the  sentence  has  been  pronounced,"  she 
muttered,  softly.  "  By  this  time  it  is  known  whether  the 
Queen  of  France  can  be  slandered  and  insulted  with  im- 
punity. Oh !  if  I  only  could  be  sure.  Did  not  Campan 
say — I  will  go  to  Campan."  And  the  queen  rose  quickly, 
went  with  a  decisive  step  out  of  her  cabinet ;  then  through 
the  toilet-room  close  by,  and  opened  the  door  which  led  to 
the  chamber  of  her  first  lady-in-waiting,  Madame  de 
Campan. 

Madame  de  Campan  stood  at  the  window,  and  gazed 
with  such  a  look  of  intense  expectation  out  into  the  twi- 
light, that  she  did  not  notice  the  entrance  of  the  queen  till 
the  latter  called  her  loudly  by  name. 

"The  queen!"  cried  she,  drawing  back  terrified  from 
the  window.  "The  queen!  and — here,  in  my  room!" 

Marie  Antoinette  made  a  movement  of  impatience. 
"  You  want  to  say  that  it  is  not  becoming  for  a  queen  to 


132  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

enter  the  room  of  her  trusted  waiting-maid,  that  it  is 
against  etiquette.  I  know  that  indeed,  but  these  are  days, 
my  good  Campan,  when  etiquette  has  no  power  over  us, 
and  when,  behind  the  royal  purple,  the  poor  human  heart, 
in  all  its  need,  comes  into  the  foreground.  This  is  such 
a  day  for  me,  and  as  I  know  you  are  true,  I  have  come  to 
you.  Did  you  not  tell  me,  Campan,  that  you  should  re- 
ceive the  news  as  soon  as  the  sentence  was  pronounced?" 

"Yes,  your  majesty,  I  do  hope  to,  and  that  is  the 
reason  why  I  am  standing  at  the  window  looking  for  my 
messenger." 

"  How  curious!"  said  the  queen,  thoughtfully.  "They 
call  me  Queen  of  France,  and  yet  I  have  no  one  who  hast- 
ens to  give  me  news  of  this  important  affair,  while  my 
waiting-maid  has  devoted  friends,  who  do  for  her  what  no 
one  does  for  the  queen." 

"I  beg  your  majesty's  pardon,"  answered  Madame  de 
Campan,  smiling.  "  What  they  do  to-day  for  me,  they  do 
only  because  I  am  the  waiting-maid  of  the  queen.  I  was 
yesterday  at  Councillor  Bugeaud's,  in  order  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  the  family  after  a  long  interval,  for  his  wife  is 
a  cousin  of  mine." 

"That  means,"  said  the  queen,  with  a  slight  smile, 
"  that  you  went  there,  not  to  visit  your  cousin,  the  council- 
lor's wife,  but  to  visit  the  councillor  himself.  Now  con- 
fess, my  good  Campan,  you  wanted  to  do  a  little  bribery." 

"  Well,  I  confess  to  your  majesty,  I  wanted  to  see  if  it 
was  really  true  that  Councillor  Bugeaud  has  gone  over  to 
the  enemy.  Your  majesty  knows  that  Madame  de  Marsan 
has  visited  all  the  councillors,  and  adjured  them  by  God 
and  the  Holy  Church,  not  to  condemn  the  cardinal,  but  to 
declare  him  innocent." 

"  That  is,  they  will  free  the  cardinal  that  I  may  be  con- 
demned," said  the  queen,  angrily.  "For  to  free  him  is 
the  same  as  to  accuse  me  and  have  my  honor  tarnished." 

"  That  was  what  I  was  saying  to  my  cousin,  Councillor 
Bugeaud,  and  happily  I  found  supporters  in  his  own  fam- 
ily. Oh,  I  assure  your  majesty  that  in  this  family  there  are 
those  who  are  devoted,  heart  and  soul,  to  your  majesty." 

"  Who  are  these  persons?"  asked  the  queen.  "  Name 
them  to  me,  that  in  my  sad  hours  I  may  remember  them." 


THE   BAD   OMEN.  123 

"  There  is,  in  the  first  place,  the  daughter  of  the  coun- 
cillor, the  pretty  Margaret,  who  is  so  enthusiastic  for  your 
majesty  that  she  saves  a  part  of  her  meagre  pocket-money 
that  she  may  ride  over  to  Versailles  at  every  great  festival 
to  see  your  majesty;  and  then  particularly  there  is  the 
lover  of  this  little  person,  a  young  man  named  Toulan,  a 
gifted,  fine  young  fellow,  who  almost  worships  your 
majesty — he  is  the  one  who  promised  me  to  bring  news  at 
once  after  the  sentence  is  pronounced,  and  it  is  more 
owing  to  his  eloquence  than  to  mine  that  Councillor  Bu- 
geaud  saw  the  necessity  of  giving  his  vote  against  the  car- 
dinal and  putting  himself  on  the  right  side." 

At  this  instant  the  door  which  led  into  the  antechamber 
was  hastily  flung  open,  and  a  lackey  entered. 

"The  gentleman  whom  you  expected  has  just  arrived," 
he  announced. 

"It  is  Mr.  Toulan,"  whispered  Madame  de  Campan  to 
the  queen ;  "  he  brings  the  sentence.  Tell  the  gentle- 
man," she  then  said  aloud  to  the  lackey,  "to  wait  a  mo- 
ment in  the  antechamber;  I  will  receive  him  directly. 
Go,  I  beg  your  majesty,"  she  continued  as  the  lackey  with- 
drew, "  I  beg  your  majesty  to  graciously  allow  me  to  receive 
the  young  man  here." 

"That  is  to  say,  my  dear  Campan,"  said  the  queen, 
smiling,  "  to  vacate  the  premises  and  leave  the  apartment. 
But  I  am  not  at  all  inclined  to,  I  prefer  to  remain  here. 
I  want  to  see  this  young  man  of  whom  you  say  that  he  is 
such  a  faithful  friend,  and  then  I  should  like  to  know  the 
news  as  soon  as  possible  that  he  brings.  See  here,  the 
chimney-screen  is  much  taller  than  I,  and  if  I  go  behind, 
the  young  man  will  have  no  suspicion  of  my  presence, 
especially  as  it  is  dark.  Now  let  him  come  in.  I  am 
most  eager  to  hear  the  news." 

The  queen  quickly  stepped  behind  the  high  screen,  and 
Madame  Campan  opened  the  door  of  the  antechamber. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Toulan,"  she  cried,  and  at  once  there 
appeared  at  the  open  door  the  tall,  powerful  figure  of  the 
young  man.  His  cheeks  were  heated  with  the  quick  ride, 
his  eyes  glowed,  and  his  breathing  was  rapid  and  hard. 

Madame  Campan  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  greeted 
him  with  a  friendly  smile.  "  So  you  have  kept  your  word, 


124  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

Mr.  Ionian,"  she  said.  "You  bring  me  the  news  of  the 
court's  decision?" 

"Yes,  madame,  I  do,"  he  answered  softly,  and  with  a 
touch  of  sadness.  "  I  am  only  sorry  that  you  have  had  to 
wait  so  long,  but  it  is  not  my  fault.  It  was  striking  eight 
from  the  tower  of  St.  Jacques  when  I  received  the  news." 

"Eight,"  asked  Madame  de  Campan,  looking  at  the 
clock,  "  it  is  now  scarcely  nine.  You  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  you  have  ridden  the  eighteen  miles  from  Paris  to  Ver- 
sailles in  an  hour?" 

"  I  have  done  it,  and  I  assure  you  that  is  nothing  won- 
derful. I  had  four  fresh  horses  stationed  along  the  road, 
and  they  were  good  ones.  I  fancied  myself  sometimes  a 
bird  flying  through  the  air,  and  it  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I 
had  flown.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  sit  down  in  your  pres- 
ence, for  my  feet  tremble  a  little." 

"Do  sit  down,  my  dear  young  friend,"  cried  Campan, 
and  she  hastened  herself  to  place  an  easy-chair  for  the 
young  man. 

"Only  an  instant,"  he  said,  sinking  into  it.  "But  be- 
lieve me  it  is  not  the  quick  ride  that  makes  my  feet  trem- 
ble, but  joy  and  excitement.  I  shall  perhaps  have  the 
pleasure  to  have  done  the  queen  a  little  service,  for  you 
told  me  that  it  would  be  very  important  for  her  majesty  to 
learn  the  verdict  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  no  one  has  got 
here  before  me,  has  there?" 

"No,  my  friend,  the  queen  will  learn  the  news  first 
through  your  means,  and  I  shall  say  to  her  majesty  that  I 
have  learned  it  through  you." 

"No,  madame,"  he  cried,  quickly,  "no,  I  would  much 
rather  you  would  not  tell  the  queen,  for  who  knoAvs 
whether  the  news  is  good,  or  whether  it  would  not  trouble 
the  noble  heart  of  the  queen,  and  then  my  name,  if  she 
should  learn  it,  would  only  be  disagreeable  to  her — rather 
that  she  should  never  hear  it  than  that  it  should  be  con- 
nected with  unpleasant  associations  to  her." 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  what  the  sentence  is?"  replied 
Campan,  astonished.  "  Have  you  come  to  bring  me  the 
sentence,  and  yet  do  not  know  yourself  what  it  is?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  madame.  The  councillor, 
the  father  of  my  sweetheart,  has  sent  it  by  me  in  writing, 


THE    BAD    OMEN.  125 

and  I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  take  time  to  read  it. 
Perhaps,  too,  I  was  too  cowardly  for  it,  for  if  I  had  seen 
that  it  contained  any  thing  that  would  trouble  the  queen, 
I  should  not  have  had  courage  to  come  here  and  deliver  the 
paper  to  you.  So  I  did  not  read  it,  and  thought  only  of 
this,  that  I  might  perhaps  save  the  queen  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  disquiet  and  anxious  expectation.  Here,  madame, 
is  the  paper  which  contains  the  sentence.  Take  it  to  her 
majesty,  and  may  the  God  of  justice  grant  that  it  contain 
nothing  which  may  trouble  the  queen!" 

He  stood  up,  and  handed  Madame  de  Campan  a  paper. 
"And  now,  madame,"  he  continued,  "allow  me  to  retire, 
that  I  may  return  to  Paris,  for  my  sweetheart  is  expecting 
me,  and,  besides,  they  are  expecting  some  disturbance  in 
the  city.  I  must  go,  therefore,  to  protect  my  house." 

"Go,  my  young  friend,"  said  Madame  de  Campan, 
warmly  pressing  his  hand.  "  Eeceive  my  heartiest  thanks 
for  your  devotion,  and  be  sure  the  queen  shall  hear  of  it. 
Farewell,  farewell!" 

"No,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  emerging  from  behind 
the  screen  with  a  laugh,  "  no,  do  not  go,  sir !  Eemain  to 
receive  your  queen's  thanks  for  the  disinterested  zeal  which 
you  have  displayed  for  me  this  day." 

"The  queen!"  whispered  Toulan,  turning  pale,  "  the 
queen!" 

And  falling  upon  his  knee  he  looked  at  the  queen  with 
such  an  expression  of  rapture  and  admiration  that  Marie 
Antoinette  was  touched. 

"  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,  Mr.  Toulan,"  she  said. 
"  Not  merely  that  you  are  the  bearer  of  important  news — I 
thank  you  besides  for  convincing  me  that  the  Queen  of 
France  has  faithful  and  devoted  friends,  and  to  know  this 
is  so  cheering  to  me  that  even  if  you  bring  me  bad  news, 
my  sorrow  will  be  softened  by  this  knowledge.  I  thank 
you  again,  Mr.  Toulan!" 

Toulan  perceived  that  the  queen  was  dismissing  him ;  he 
stood  up  and  retreated  to  the  door,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
queen,  and  then,  after  opening  the  door,  he  sank,  as  it 
were,  overcome  by  the  storm  of  his  emotions,  a  second  time 
upon  his  knee,  and  folding  his  hands,  raised  his  great, 
beaming  eyes  to  heaven. 


126  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  God  in  heaven,"  he  said  loudly  and  solemnly,  "  I  thank 
Thee  for  the  joy  of  this  hour.  From  this  moment  I  de- 
vote myself  to  the  service  of  my  queen.  She  shall  hence- 
forth be  the  divinity  whom  I  serve,  and  to  whom  I  will,  if 
I  can  avail  any  thing,  freely  offer  my  bipod  and  life.  This 
I  swear,  and  God  and  the  queen  have  heard  my  oath !" 

And  without  casting  another  glance  at  the  queen,  with- 
out saluting  her,  Toulan  rose  and  softly  left  the  room, 
tightly  closing  the  door  after  him. 

"Singular,"  murmured  the  queen,  "really  singular. 
When  he  took  the  oath  a  shudder  passed  through  my  soul, 
and  something  seemed  to  say  to  me  that  I  should  some  time 
be  very  unhappy,  and  that  this  young  man  should  then  be 
near  me." 

"Your  majesty  is  excited  to-day,  and  so  every  thing 
seems  to  have  a  sad  meaning,"  said  Madame  de  Campan, 
softly. 

"But  the  sentence,  the  sentence!"  cried  the  queen. 
"  Give  me  the  paper,  I  will  read  it  myself." 

Madame  de  Campan  hesitated.  "  Would  your  majesty 
not  prefer  to  receive  it  in  the  presence  of  the  king,  and 
have  it  read  by  his  majesty?" 

"  No,  no,  Campan.  If  it  is  favorable,  I  shall  have  pleas- 
ure in  carrying  the  good  news  to  the  king.  If  it  is  un- 
favorable, then  I  can  collect  myself  before  I  see  him." 

"  But  it  is  so  dark  here  now  that  it  will  be  impossible  to 
read  writing." 

"You  are  right,  let  us  go  into  my  sitting-room,"  said 
the  queen.  "  The  candles  must  be  lighted  there  already. 
Come,  Campan,  since  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  this  early 
message,  you  shall  be  the  first  to  learn  it.  Come,  Cam- 
pan,  go  with  me!" 

With  a  quick  step  the  queen  returned  to  her  apartments, 
and  entered  her  sitting-room,  followed  by  Madame  de 
Campan,  whose  countenance  was  filled  with  sad  fore- 
bodings. 

The  queen  was  right;  the  candles  had  already  been 
lighted  in  her  apartments,  and  diffused  a  light  like  that  of 
day  throughout  her  large  sitting-room.  In  the  little  porce- 
lain cabinet,  however,  there  was  a  milder  light,  as  Marie 
Antoinette  liked  to  have  it  when  she  was  alone  and  sans 


THE    BAD   OMEN.  127 

ceremonial.  The  candles  on  the  main  chandelier  were  not 
lighted,  and  on  the  table  of  Sevres  china  and  rosewood 
which  stood  before  the  divan  were  two  silver  candlesticks, 
each  with  two  wax  candles.  These  four  were  the  only 
lights  in  the  apartment. 

"  Now,  Cam  pan,"  said  the  queen,  sinking  into  the  arm- 
chair which  stood  before  the  table,  near  the  divan,  "  now 
give  me  the  paper.  But  no,  you  would  better  read  it  to 
me— but  exactly  as  it  stands.  You  promise  me  that?" 

"Your  majesty  has  commanded,  and  I  must  obey,"  said 
Campan,  bowing. 

"Read,  read,"  urged  Marie  Antoinette.  "Let  me  know 
the  sentence." 

Madame  de  Campan  unfolded  the  paper,  and  went  nearer 
to  the  light  in  order  to  see  better.  Marie  Antoinette 
leaned  forward,  folded  both  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked 
at  Campan  with  an  expression  of  eager  expectation. 

"Read,  read!"  she  repeated,  with  trembling  lips. 

Madame  de  Campan  bowed  and  read : 

"  First. — The  writing,  the  basis  of  the  trial,  the  note  and 
signatures,  are  declared  to  be  forged  in  imitation  of  the 
queen's  hand. 

"  Second. — Count  Lamotte  is  sentenced  in  contumacion 
to  the  galleys  for  life. 

"Third. — The  woman  Lamotte  to  be  whipped,  marked 
on  both  shoulders  with  the  letter  0,  and  to  be  confined  for 
life. 

"Fourth. — Retaux  de  Vilette  to  be  banished  for  life 
from  France. 

"  Fifth. — Mademoiselle  Oliva  is  discharged. 

"  Sixth.— The  lord  cardinal—" 

"Well,"  cried  the  queen,  passionately,  "why  do  you 
stammer,  why  do  you  tremble?  He  has  been  discharged; 
I  know  it  already,  for  we  are  already  at  the  names  of  the 
acquitted.  Read  on,  Campan." 

And  Madame  de  Campan  read  on : 

"  The  lord  cardinal  is  acquitted  from  every  charge,  and 
is  allowed  to  publish  this  acquittal." 

"Acquitted!"  cried  the  queen,  springing  from  her  seat, 
"acquitted!  Oh,  Campan,  what  I  feared  is  true.  The 
Queen  of  France  has  become  the  victim  of  cabals  and  in- 


128  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER    SON. 

trigues.  The  Queen  of  France  in  her  honor,  dignity,  and 
virtue,  is  injured  and  wounded  by  one  of  her  own  subjects, 
and  there  is  no  punishment  for  him ;  he  is  free.  Pity  me, 
Campan!  But  no,  on  the  contrary,  I  pity  you,  I  pity 
France !  If  I  can  have  no  impartial  judges  in  a  matter 
which  darkens  my  character,  what  can  you,  what  can  all 
others  hope  for,  when  you  are  tried  in  a  matter  which 
touches  your  happiness  and  honor?  *  I  am  sad,  sad  in  my 
inmost  soul,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  this  instant  were  to 
overshadow  my  whole  life ;  as  if  the  shades  of  night  had 
fallen  upon  me,  and — what  is  that?  Did  you  blow  out  the 
light,  Campan?" 

"  Your  majesty  sees  that  I  am  standing  entirely  away 
from  the  lights." 

"But  only  see,"  cried  the  queen,  "one  of  the  candles  is 
put  out!" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Madame  de  Campan,  looking  at  the 
light,  over  which  a  bluish  cloud  was  yet  hovering.  "  The 
light  is  put  out,  but  if  your  majesty  allows  me,  I — " 

She  was  silent,  and  her  bearing  assumed  the  appearance 
of  amazement  and  horror. 

The  candle  which  had  been  burning  in  the  other  arm  of 
the  candlestick  went  out  like  the  one  before. 

The  queen  said  not  a  word.  She  gazed  with  pale  lips 
and  wide-opened  eyes  at  both  the  lights,  the  last  spark  of 
which  had  just  disappeared. 

"  Will  your  majesty  allow  me  to  light  the  candles  again?" 
asked  Madame  de  Campan,  extending  her  hand  to  the 
candlestick. 

But  the  queen  held  her  hand  fast.  "  Let  them  be,"  she 
whispered,  "  I  want  to  see  whether  both  the  other 
lights—" 

Suddenly  she  was  convulsed,  and,  rising  slowly  from  her 
arm-chair,  pointed  with  silent  amazement  at  the  second 
candlestick. 

One  of  the  two  other  lights  had  gone  out. 

Only  one  was  now  burning,  and  dark  shadows  filled  the 
cabinet.  The  one  light  faintly  illumined  only  the  centre, 
and  shone  with  its  glare  upon  the  pale,  horrified  face  of 
the  queen. 

*  The  very  words  of  the  queen.  See  "Memoires  de  Madame  de  Campan," 
vol.  11.,  T>.  23. 


BEFORE   THE   MARRIAGE.  129 

"Campan,"  she  whispered,  raising  her  arm,  and  point- 
ing at  the  single  light  which  remained  burning,  "  if  this 
fourth  light  goes  out  like  the  other  three,  it  is  a  bad  omen 
for  me,  and  forebodes  the  approach  of  misfortune." 

At  this  instant  the  light  flared  up  and  illumined  the 
room  more  distinctly,  then  its  flame  began  to  die  away. 

One  flare  more  and  this  light  went  out,  and  a  deep  dark- 
ness reigned  in  the  cabinet. 

The  queen  uttered  a  loud,  piercing  cry,  and  sank  in  a 
swoon. 


CHAPTEK    VIII. 

BEFORE    THE     MARRIAGE. 

THE  wedding  guests  were  assembled.  Madame  Bugeaud 
had  just  put  the  veil  upon  the  head  of  her  daughter  Mar- 
garet, and  impressed  upon  her  forehead  the  last  kiss  of 
motherly  love.  It  was  the  hour  when  a  mother  holds  her 
daughter  as  a  child  in  her  arms  for  the  last  time,  bids 
adieu  to  the  pleasant  pictures  of  the  past,  and  sends  her 
child  from  her  parents'  house  to  go  out  into  the  world  and 
seek  a  new  home.  Painful  always  is  such  an  hour  to  a 
mother's  heart,  for  the  future  is  uncertain;  no  one  knows 
any  thing  about  the  new  vicissitudes  that  may  arise. 

And  painful,  too,  to  the  wife  of  Councillor  Bugeaud  was 
this  parting  from  her  dearly-loved  daughter,  but  she  sup- 
pressed her  deep  emotion,  restrained  the  tears  in  her  heart, 
that  not  one  should  fall  upon  the  bridal  wreath  of  her  loved 
daughter.  Tears  dropped  upon  the  bridal  wreath  are  the 
heralds  of  coming  misfortune,  the  seal  of  pain  which  des- 
tiny stamps  upon  the  brow  of  the  doomed  one. 

And  the  tender  mother  would  so  gladly  have  taken  away 
from  her  loved  Margaret  every  pain  and  every  misfortune ! 
The  times  were  threatening,  and  the  horizon  of  the  present 
was  so  full  of  stormy  signs  that  it  was  necessary  to  look 
into  the  future  with  hope. 

"Go,  my  daughter,"  said  Madame  Bugeaud,  with  a 
smile,  regarding  which  only  God  knew  how  much  it  cost 
the  mother's  heart — "go  out  into  your  new  world,  be 


130  MAKIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

happy,  and  may  you  never  regret  the  moment  when  you  left 
the  threshold  of  your  father's  house  to  enter  a  new  home!" 

"My  dear  mother,"  cried  Margaret,  with  beaming  eyes, 
"  the  house  to  which  I  am  going  is  the  house  of  him  I  love, 
and  my  new  home  is  his  heart,  which  is  noble,  great,  and 
good,  and  in  which  all  the  treasures  in  the  earth  for  me 
rest." 

"  God  grant,  my  daughter,  that  you  may  after  many 
years  be  able  to  repeat  those  words!" 

"  I  shall  repeat  them,  mother,  for  in  my  heart  is  a  joy- 
ful trust.  I  can  never  be  unhappy,  for  Toulan  loves  me. 
But,  hark!  I  hear  him  coming;  it  is  his  step,  and  listen! 
he  is  calling  me!" 

And  the  young  girl,  with  reddening  cheeks,  directed  her 
glowing  eyes  to  the  door,  which  just  then  opened,  where 
appeared  her  lover,  in  a  simple,  dark,  holiday-suit,  with  a 
friendly,  grave  countenance,  his  tender,  beaming  eyes 
turned  toward  his  affianced. 

He  hastened  to  her,  and  kissed  the  little  trembling  hand 
which  was  extended  to  him. 

"  All  the  wedding  guests  are  ready,  my  love.  The  car- 
riages are  waiting,  and  as  soon  as  we  enter  the  church  the 
clergyman  will  advance  to  the  altar  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony." 

"  Then  let  us  go,  Louis,"  said  Margaret,  nodding  to  him, 
and  arm-in-arm  they  went  to  the  door. 

But  Toulan  held  back.  "  Not  yet,  my  dear  one.  Before 
we  go  to  the  church,  I  want  to  have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"  That  is  to  say,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  would  like  to 
have  me  withdraw,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  smile.  "Do 
not  apologize,  my  son,  that  is  only  natural,  and  I  dare  not 
be  jealous.  My  daughter  belongs  to  you,  and  I  have  no 
longer  the  right  to  press  into  your  secrets.  So  I  will  with- 
draw, and  only  God  may  hear  what  the  lover  has  to  say  to 
his  affianced  before  the  wedding." 

She  nodded  in  friendly  fashion  to  the  couple,  and  left 
the  room. 

"  We  are  now  alone,  my  Margaret,"  said  Toulan,  putting 
his  arm  around  the  neck  of  the  fair  young  maiden,  and 
drawing  her  to  himself.  "  Only  God  is  to  hear  what  I  have 
to  say  to  you." 


BEFORE   THE    MARRIAGE.  131 

"I  hope,  Louis,"  whispered  the  young  girl,  trembling, 
"  I  hope  it  is  not  bad  news  that  you  want  to  tell  me.  Your 
face  is  so  grave,  your  whole  look  so  solemn.  You  love  me 
still,  Louis?" 

"Yes,  Margaret,  I  do  love  you,"  answered  he,  softly; 
"  but  yet,  before  you  speak  the  word  which  binds  you  to 
me  forever,  I  must  open  my  whole  heart  to  you,  and  you 
must  know  all  I  feel,  in  order  that,  if  there  is  a  future  to 
prove  us,  we  may  meet  it  with  fixed  gaze  and  joyful  spirit." 

"My  God!  what  have  I  to  hear?"  whispered  the  young 
girl,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  heart,  that  began  to  beat 
with  unwonted  violence. 

"  You  will  have  to  hear,  my  Margaret,  that  I  love  you, 
and  yet  that  the  image  of  another  woman  is  cherished  in 
my  heart." 

"  Who  is  this  other  woman?"  cried  Margaret. 

"  Margaret,  it  is  Queen  Marie  Antoinette." 

The  girl  breathed  freely,  and  laughed.  "  Ah !  how  you 
frightened  me,  Louis.  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to 
name  a  rival,  and  now  you  mention  her  whom  I,  too,  love 
and  honor,  to  whom  I  pay  my  whole  tribute  of  admiration, 
and  who,  although  you  ought  to  live  there  alone,  has  a 
place  in  my  heart.  I  shall  never  be  jealous  of  the  queen. 
I  love  her  just  as  devotedly  ,as  you  do." 

A  light,  sympathetic  smile  played  upon  the  lips  of  Tou- 
lan.  "No,  Margaret,"  said  he,  gravely,  "you  do  not  love 
her  as  I  do,  and  you  cannot,  for  your  duty  to  her  is  not 
like  mine.  Listen,  my  darling,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  little 
story — a  story  which  is  so  sacred  to  me  that  it  has  never 
passed  over  my  lips,  although,  according  to  the  ways  of 
human  thinking,  there  is  nothing  so  very  strange  about  it. 
Come,  my  dear,  sit  down  with  me  a  little  while,  and  listen 
to  me." 

He  led  the  maiden  to  the  little  divan,  and  took  a  place 
with  her  upon  it.  Her  hand  lay  within  his,  and  with  a 
joyful  and  tender  look  she  gazed  into  the  bold,  noble,  and 
good  face  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was  ready  to  devote  her 
whole  life. 

"Speak  now,  Louis,  I  will  listen!" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  of  my  father,  Margaret,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  gentle  voice — "of  my  father,  who 


132  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

thirsted  and  hungered  for  me,  in  his  efforts  to  feed,  clothe, 
and  educate  me.  He  had  been  an  officer  in  the  army,  had 
distinguished  himself  in  many  a  battle,  was  decorated,  on 
account  of  his  bravery,  with  the  Order  of  St.  Louis,  and 
discharged  as  an  invalid.  That  was  a  sad  misfortune  for 
my  father,  for  he  was  poor,  and  his  officer's  pay  was  his 
only  fortune.  But  no — he  had  a  nobler,  a  fairer  fortune — 
he  had  a  wife  whom  he  passionately  loved,  a  little  boy 
whom  he  adored.  And  now  the  means  of  existence  were 
taken  away  from  this  loved  wife,  this  dear  boy,  and  from 
him  whose  service  had  been  the  offering  of  his  life  for  his 
king  and  country,  the  storming  of  fortifications,  the  defy- 
ing of  the  bayonets  of  enemies ;  and  who  in  this  service  had 
been  so  severely  wounded,  that  his  life  was  saved  only  by 
the  amputation  of  his  right  arm.  Had  it  not  been  just 
this  right  arm,  he  would  have  been  able  to  do  something 
for  himself,  and  to  have  found  some  employment  in  the 
government  service.  But  now  he  was  robbed  of  all  hope 
of  employment;  now  he  saw  for  himself  and  his  family 
only  destruction,  starvation !  But  he  could  not  believe  it 
possible ;  he  held  it  to  be  impossible  that  the  king  should 
allow  his  bold  soldier,  his  knight  of  the  Order  of  St.  Louis, 
to  die  of  hunger,  after  becoming  a  cripple  in  his  service. 
He  resolved  to  go  to  Paris,  to  declare  his  need  to  the  king, 
and  to  implore  the  royal  bounty.  This  journey  was  the 
last  hope  of  the  family,  and  my  father  was  just  entering  on 
it  when  my  mother  sickened  and  died.  She  was  the  prop, 
the  right  arm  of  my  father;  she  was  the  nurse,  the  teacher 
of  his  poor  boy;  now  he  had  no  hope  more,  except  in  the 
favor  of  the  king  and  in  death.  The  last  valuables  were 
sold,  and  father  and  son  journeyed  to  Paris:  an  invalid 
whose  bravery  had  cost  him  an  arm,  and  whose  tears  over  a 
lost  wife  had  nearly  cost  him  his  eyesight,  and  a  lad  of 
twelve  years,  acquainted  only  with  pain  and  want  from  his 
birth,  and  in  whose  heart,  notwithstanding,  there  was  an 
inextinguishable  germ  of  hope,  spirit,  and  joy.  We  went 
on  foot,  and  when  my  shoes  were  torn  with  the  long  march, 
my  feet  swollen  and  bloody,  my  father  told  me  to  climb 
upon  his  back  and  let  him  carry  me.  I  would  not  allow  it, 
suppressed  my  pain,  and  went  on  till  I  dropped  in  a  swoon." 
"Oh!"  cried  Margaret,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "how 


BEFORE    THE    MARRIAGE.  133 

much  you  have  suffered ;  and  I  am  learning  it  now  for  the 
first  time,  and  you  never  told  me  this  sad  history." 

"  I  forgot  every  thing  sad  when  I  began  to  love  you, 
Margaret,  and  I  did  not  want  to  trouble  you  with  my  sto- 
ries. Why  should  we  darken  the  clear  sky  of  the  present 
with  the  clouds  of  the  past?  the  future  will  unquestionably 
bring  its  own  clouds.  I  tell  you  all  this  now,  in  order  that 
you  may  understand  my  feelings.  Now  hear  me  further, 
Margaret !  At  last,  after  long-continued  efforts,  we  reached 
Versailles,  and  it  seemed  to  us  as  if  all  suffering  and  want 
were  taken  away  from  us  when  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
dark,  poor  inn,  and  lay  down  on  the  hard  beds.  On  the 
next,  my  father  put  on  his  uniform,  decorated  his  breast 
with  the  order  of  St.  Louis,  and,  as  the  pain  in  his  eyes 
prevented  his  going  alone,  I  had  to  accompany  him.  We 
repaired  to  the  palace  and  entered  the  great  gallery  which 
the  court  daily  traversed  on  returning  from  mass  in  the 
royal  apartments.  My  father,  holding  in  his  hand  the  pe- 
tition which  I  had  written  to  his  dictation,  took  his  place 
near  the  door  through  which  the  royal  couple  must  pass. 
I  stood  near  him  and  looked  with  curious  eyes  at  the  brill- 
iant throng  which  filled  the  great  hall,  and  at  the  richly- 
dressed  gentlemen  who  were  present  and  held  petitions  in 
their  hands,  in  spite  of  their  cheerful  looks  and  their  fine 
clothes.  And  these  gentlemen  crowded  in  front  of  my 
father,  shoved  him  to  the  wall,  hid  him  from  the  eye  of 
the  king,  who  passed  through  the  hall  at  the  side  of  the 
queen,  and  with  a  pleasant  face  received  all  the  petitions 
which  were  handed  to  him.  Sadly  we  turned  home,  but 
on  the  following  day  we  repaired  to  the  gallery  again,  and 
I  had  the  courage  to  crowd  back  some  of  the  elegantly- 
dressed  men  who  wanted  to  press  before  my  father,  and  to 
secure  for  him  a  place  in  the  front  row.  I  was  rewarded 
for  my  boldness.  The  king  came,  and  with  a  gracious 
smile  took  the  petition  from  the  hand  of  my  father,  and 
laid  it  in  the  silver  basket  which  the  almoner  near  him 
carried." 

"Thank  God,"  cried  Margaret,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"thank  God,  you  were  saved!" 

"  That  we  said  too,  Margaret,  and  that  restored  my 
father's  hope  and  made  him  again  happy  and  well.  We 


134  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

went  the  next  day  to  the  gallery.  The  king  appeared,  the 
grand  almoner  announced  the  names  of  those  who  were  to 
receive  answers  to  their  petitions — the  name  of  my  father 
was  not  among  them!  But  we  comforted  ourselves  with 
the  thought,  it  was  not  possible  to  receive  answers  so 
quickly,  and  on  the  next  day  we  went  to  the  gallery  again, 
and  so  on  for  fourteen  successive  days,  but  all  in  vain ;  the 
name  of  my  father  was  never  called.  Still  we  went  every 
day  to  the  gallery  and  took  our  old  place  there,  only  the 
countenance  of  my  father  was  daily  growing  paler,  his  step 
weaker,  and  his  poor  boy  more  trustless  and  weak.  We 
had  no  longer  the  means  of  stilling  our  hunger,  we  had 
consumed  every  thing,  and  my  father's  cross  of  St.  Louis 
was  our  last  possession.  But  that  we  dared  not  part  with, 
for  it  was  our  passport  to  the  palace,  it  opened  to  us  the 
doors  of  the  great  gallery,  and  there  was  still  one  last  hope. 
'We  go  to-morrow  for  the  last  time,'  said  my  father  to  me 
on  the  fifteenth  day.  'If  it  should  be  in  vain  on  the  mor- 
row, then  I  shall  sell  my  cross,  that  you,  Louis,  may  not 
need  to  be  hungry  any  more,  and  then  may  God  have 
mercy  upon  us!'  So  we  went  the  next  day  to  the  gallery 
again.  My  father  was  to-day  paler  than  before,  but  he 
held  his  head  erect ;  he  fixed  his  eye,  full  of  an  expression 
of  defiance  and  scorn,  upon  the  talkative,  laughing  gentle- 
men around  him,  who  strutted  in  their  rich  clothes,  and 
overlooked  the  poor  chevalier  who  stood  near  them,  des- 
pised and  alone.  In  my  poor  boy's  heart  there  was  a  fear- 
ful rage  against  these  proud,  supercilious  men,  who  thought 
themselves  so  grand  because  they  wore  better  clothes,  and 
because  they  had  distinguished  acquaintances  and  relations, 
and  yet  were  no  more  than  my  father — no  more  than  sup- 
pliants and  petitioners;  tears  of  anger  and  of  grief  filled 
my  eyes,  and  the  depth  of  our  poverty  exasperated  my  soul 
against  the  injustice  of  fate.  All  at  once  the  whispering 
and  talking  ceased, — the  king  and  the  queen  had  entered 
the  gallery.  The  king  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
the  grand  almoner  called  the  names,  and  the  favored  ones 
approached  the  king,  to  receive  from  him  the  fulfilment  of 
their  wishes,  or  at  least  keep  their  hope  alive.  Near  him 
stood  the  young  queen,  and  while  she  was  conversing  with 
Borne  gentlemen  of  the  court,  her  beautiful  eyes  glanced 


BEFORE   THE   MARRIAGE.  135 

over  to  us,  and  lingered  upon  the  noble  but  sad  form  of 
my  father.  I  had  noticed  that  on  previous  days,  and  every 
time  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  ray  from  the  sun  had  warmed 
my  poor  trembling  heart — as  if  new  blossoms  of  hope  were 
patting  forth  in  my  soul.  To-day  this  sensation,  when  the 
queen  looked  at  us,  was  more  intense  than  before.  My 
father  looked  at  the  king  and  whispered  softly,  'I  see  him 
to-day  for  the  last  time!'  But  I  saw  only  the  queen,  and 
while  I  pressed  the  cold,  moist  hand  of  my  father  to  my 
lips,  I  whispered,  'Courage,  dear  father,  courage!  The 
queen  has  seen  us. '  She  stopped  short  in  her  conversation 
with  the  gentleman  and  advanced  through  the  hall  with  a 
quick,  light  step  directly  to  us;  her  large  gray- blue  eyes 
beamed  with  kindness,  a  heavenly  smile  played  around  her 
rosy  lips,  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  feeling;  she  was 
simply  dressed,  and  yet  there  floated  around  her  an  atmo- 
sphere of  grace  and  nobleness.  'My  dear  chevalier,' said 
she,  and  her  voice  rang  like  the  sweetest  music,  'my  dear 
chevalier,  have  you  given  a  petition  to  the  king?'  'Yes, 
madame,'  answered  my  father  trembling,  'fourteen  days 
ago  I  presented  a  petition  to  the  king. '  'And  have  you  re- 
ceived no  answer  yet?'  she  asked  quickly.  'I  see  you  every 
day  here  with  the  lad  there,  and  conclude  you  are  still 
hoping  for  an  answer. '  '  So  it  is,  madame, '  answered  my 
father,  'I  expect  an  answer,  that  is  I  expect  a  decision  in- 
volving my  life  or  death.'  'Poor  man!'  said  the  queen, 
with  a  tone  of  deep  sympathy.  'Fourteen  days  of  such 
waiting  must  be  dreadful!  I  pity  you  sincerely.  Have 
you  no  one  to  present  your  claims?'  'Madame,'  answered 
my  father,  'I  have  no  one  else  to  present  my  claims  than 
this  empty  sleeve  which  lacks  a  right  arm — no  other  pro- 
tection than  the  justice  of  my  cause. '  'Poor  man!'  sighed 
the  queen,  'you  must  know  the  world  very  little  if  you  be- 
lieve that  this  is  enough.  But,  if  you  allow  me,  I  will 
undertake  your  protection,  and  be  your  intercessor  with 
the  king.  Tell  me  your  name  and  address. '  My  father 
gave  them,  the  queen  listened  attentively  and  smiled  in 
friendly  fashion.  'Be  here  to-morrow  at  this  hour — I  my- 
self will  bring  you  the  king's  answer. '  We  left  the  palace 
with  new  courage,  with  new  hope.  We  felt  no  longer 
that  we  were  tired  and  hungry,  and  heeded  not  the  com- 


136  MAKIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

plaints  of  our  host,  who  declared  that  he  had  no  more 
patience,  and  that  he  would  no  longer  give  us  credit  for  the 
miserable  chamber  which  we  had.  His  scolding  and 
threatening  troubled  us  that  day  no  more.  We  begged 
him  to  have  patience  with  us  till  to-morrow.  We  told  him 
our  hopes  for  the  future,  and  we  rejoiced  in  our  own 
cheerful  expectations.  At  length  the  next  day  arrived, 
the  hour  of  the  audience  came,  and  we  repaired  to  the 
great  gallery.  My  heart  beat  so  violently  that  I  could  feel 
it  upon  my  lips,  and  my  father's  face  was  lighted  up  with 
a  glow  of  hope;  his  eye  had  its  old  fire,  his  whole  being 
was  filled  with  new  life,  his  carriage  erect  as  in  our  happy 
days.  At  last  the  doors  opened  and  the  royal  couple  en- 
tered. 'Pray  for  me,  my  son,'  my  father  whispered — 
'pray  for  me  that  my  hopes  be  not  disappointed,  else  I 
shall  fall  dead  to  the  earth. '  But  I  could  not  pray,  I  could 
not  think.  I  could  only  gaze  at  the  beautiful  young  queen, 
who  seemed  to  my  eyes  as  if  beaming  in  a  golden  cloud  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  stars  of  heaven.  The  eyes  of  the  queen 
darted  inquiringly  through  the  hall;  at  last  she  caught 
mine  and  smiled.  Oh  that  smile !  it  shot  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
light through  my  soul,  it  filled  my  whole  being  with  rap- 
ture. I  sank  upon  my  knee,  folded  my  hands,  and  now  I 
could  think,  could  pray:  '  A  blessing  upon  the  queen!  she 
comes  to  save  my  dear  father's  life,  for  she  frees  us  from 
our  sufferings.'  The  queen  approached,  so  beautiful,  so 
lovely,  with  such  a  beaming  eye.  She  held  a  sealed  paper 
in  her  hand  and  gave  it  to  my  father  with  a  gentle  inclina- 
tion of  her  head.  'Here,  sir,'  she  said,  'the  king  is  happy 
to  be  able  to  reward,  in  the  name  of  France,  one  of  his 
best  officers.  The  king  grants  you  a  yearly  pension  of 
three  hundred  louis-d'or,  and  I  wish  for  you  and  your  son 
that  you  may  live  yet  many  years  to  enjoy  happiness  and 
health.  Go  at  once  with  this  paper  to  the  treasury,  and 
you  will  receive  the  first  quarterly  payment. '  Then,  when 
she  saw  that  my  father  was  almost  swooning,  she  summoned 
with  a  loud  voice  some  gentlemen  of  the  court,  and  com- 
manded them  to  take  care  of  my  father;  to  take  him  out 
into  the  fresh  air,  and  to  arrange  that  he  be  sent  home  in 
a  carriage.  Now  all  these  fine  gentlemen  were  busy  in 
helping  us.  Every  one  vied  with  the  others  in  being 


BEFORE   THE    MARRIAGE.  13T 

i 

friendly  to  us;  and  the  poor  neglected  invalid  who  had 
been  crowded  to  the  wall,  the  overlooked  officer  Toulan, 
was  now  an  object  of  universal  care  and  attention.  We 
rode  home  to  our  inn  in  a  royal  carriage,  and  the  host  did 
not  grumble  any  longer;  he  was  anxious  to  procure  us 
food,  and  very  active  in  caring  for  all  our  needs.  The 
queen  had  saved  us  from  misfortune,  the  queen  had  made 
us  happy  and  well  to  do." 

"A  blessing  upon  the  dear  head  of  our  queen!"  cried 
Margaret,  raising  her  folded  hands  to  heaven.  "  Now  I 
shall  doubly  love  her,  for  she  is  the  benefactor  of  him  I 
love.  Oh,  why  have  you  waited  until  now  before  telling 
me  this  beautiful,  touching  story?  Why  have  I  not  en- 
joyed it  before?  But  I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  the 
good  which  it  has  done  me." 

"My  dear  one,"  answered  Toulan,  gravely,  "there  are 
experiences  in  the  human  soul  that  one  may  reveal  only  in 
the  most  momentous  epochs  of  life — just  as  in  the  Jewish 
temple  the  Holy  of  Holies  was  revealed  only  on  the  chief 
feast-days.  Such  a  time,  my  dear  one,  is  to-day,  and  I 
withdraw  all  veils  from  my  heart,  and  let  you  see  and  know 
what,  besides  you,  only  God  sees  and  knows.  Since  that 
day  when  I  returned  with  my  father  from  the  palace,  and 
when  the  queen  had  made  us  happy  again — since  that  day 
my  whole  soul  has  belonged  to  the  queen.  I  thanked  her 
for  all,  for  the  contentment  of  my  father,  for  every  cheer- 
ful hour  which  we  spent  together;  and  all  the  knowledge 
I  have  gained,  all  the  studies  I  have  attempted,  I  owe  to 
the  beautiful,  noble  Marie  Antoinette.  We  went  to  our 
home,  and  I  entered  the  high-school  in  order  to  fit  myself 
to  be  a  merchant,  a  bookseller.  My  father  had  enjoined 
upon  me  not  to  choose  a  soldier's  lot.  The  sad  experience 
of  his  invalid  life  hung  over  him  like  a  dark  cloud,  and  he 
did  not  wish  that  I  should  ever  enter  into  the  same.  'Be 
an  independent,  free  man,'  said  he  to  me.  'Learn  to  de- 
pend on  your  own  strength  and  your  own  will  alone.  Use 
the  powers  of  your  mind,  become  a  soldier  of  labor,  and  so 
serve  your  country.  I  know,  indeed,  that  if  the  hour  of 
danger  ever  comes,  you  will  be  a  true,  bold  soldier  for  your 
queen,  and  fight  for  her  till  your  last  breath.'  I  had  to 
promise  him  on  his  death-bed  that  I  would  so  do.  Even 


138  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

then  he  saw  the  dark  and  dangerous  days  approach,  which 
have  now  broken  upon  the  realm — even  then  he  heard  the 
muttering  of  the  tempest  which  now  so  inevitably  is  ap- 
proaching ;  and  often  when  I  went  home  to  his  silent  cham- 
ber I  found  him  reading,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  the 
pamphlets  and  journals  which  had  come  from  Paris  to  us 
at  Eouen,  and  which  seemed  to  us  like  the  storm -birds  an- 
nouncing the  tempest.  ' The  queen  is  so  good,  so  innocent,' 
he  would  sigh,  'and  they  make  her  goodness  a  crime  and 
her  innocence  they  make  guilt!  She  is  like  a  lamb,  gur- 
rounded  by  tigers,  that  plays  thoughtlessly  with  the  flowers, 
and  does  not  know  the  poison  that  lurks  beneath  them. 
Swear  to  me,  Louis,  that  you  will  seek,  if  God  gives  you 
the  power,  to  free  the  lamb  from  the  bloodthirsty  tigers. 
Swear  to  me  that  your  whole  life  shall  be  devoted  to  her 
service. '  And  I  did  swear  it,  Margaret,  not  merely  to  my 
dear  father,  but  to  myself  as  well.  Every  day  I  have  re- 
peated, 'To  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  belongs  my  life,  for 
every  thing  that  makes  life  valuable  I  owe  to  her.'  "When 
my  father  died,  I  left  Eouen  and  removed  to  Paris,  there 
to  pursue  my  business  as  a  bookseller.  My  suspicions  told 
me  that  the  time  would  soon  come  when  the  friends  of  the 
queen  must  rally  around  her,  and  must  perhaps  put  a  mask 
over  their  faces,  in  order  to  sustain  themselves  until  the 
days  of  real  danger.  That  time  has  now  come,  Margaret ; 
the  queen  is  in  danger!  The  tigers  have  surrounded  the 
lamb,  and  it  cannot  escape.  Enemies  everywhere,  wher- 
ever you  look! — enemies  even  in  the  palace  itself.  The 
Count  de  Provence,  her  own  brother-in-law,  has  for  years 
persecuted  her  with  his  epigrams,  because  he  cannot  for- 
give it  in  her  that  the  king  pays  more  attention  to  her 
counsels  than  he  does  to  those  of  his  brother,  who  hates 
the  Austrian.  The  Count  d'Artois,  formerly  the  only 
friend  of  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  royal  family,  deserted 
her  when  the  queen  took  ground  against  the  view  of  the 
king's  brothers  in  favor  of  the  double  representation  of  the 
Third  Estate,  and  persuaded  her  husband  to  comply  with 
the  wishes  of  the  nation  and  call  together  the  States- 
General.  He  has  gone  over  to  the  camp  of  her  enemies, 
and  rages  against  the  queen,  because  she  is  inclined  to 
favor  the  wishes  of  the  people.  And  yet  this  very  people 


BEFOEE   THE   MARRIAGE.  139 

is  turned  against  her,  does  not  believe  in  the  love,  but  only 
in  the  hate  of  the  queen,  and  all  parties  are  agreed  in  keep- 
ing the  people  in  this  faith.  The  Duke  d'Orleans  revenges 
himself  upon  the  innocent  and  pure  queen  for  the  scorn 
which  she  displays  to  this  infamous  prince.  The  aunts  of 
the  queen  revenge  themselves  for  the  obscure  position  to 
which  fate  has  consigned  them,  they  having  to  play  the 
second  part  at  the  brilliant  court  of  Versailles,  and  be 
thrown  into  the  shade  by  Marie  Antoinette.  The  whole 
court — all  these  jealous,  envious  ladies — revenge  themselves 
for  the  favor  which  the  queen  has  shown  to  the  Polignacs. 
They  have  undermined  her  good  name ;  they  have  fought 
against  her  with  the  poisoned  arrows  of  denunciation, 
calumny,  pamphlets,  and  libels.  Every  thing  bad  that  has 
happened  has  been  ascribed  to  her.  She  has  been  held  re- 
sponsible for  every  evil  that  has  happened  to  the  nation. 
The  queen  is  accountable  for  the  financial  troubles  that 
have  broken  over  us,  and  since  the  ministry  have  declared 
the  state  bankrupt,  Parisians  call  the  queen  Madame  De- 
ficit. Curses  follow  her  when  she  drives  out,  and  even 
when  she  enters  the  theatre.  Even  in  her  own  gardens  of 
St.  Cloud  and  Trianon  men  dare  to  insult  the  queen  as  she 
passes  by.  In  all  the  clubs  of  Paris  they  thunder  at  the 
queen,  and  call  her  the  destruction  of  France.  The  down- 
fall of  Marie  Antoinette  is  resolved  upon  by  her  enemies, 
and  the  time  has  come  when  her  friends  must  be  active  for 
her.  The  time  has  come  for  me  to  pay  the  vow  which  I 
made  to  my  dying  father  and  to  myself.  God  has  blessed 
my  efforts  and  crowned  my  industry  and  activity  with  suc- 
cess. I  have  reached  an  independent  position.  The  con- 
fidence of  my  fellow-citizens  has  made  me  a  councillor.  I 
have  accepted  the  position,  not  out  of  vanity  or  ambition, 
but  because  it  will  give  me  opportunity  to  serve  the  queen. 
I  wear  a  mask  before  my  face.  I  belong  to  the  democrats 
and  agitators.  I^appear  to  the  world  as  an  enemy  of  the 
queen,  in  order  to  be  able  to  do  her  some  secret  service  as 
a  friend ;  for  I  say  to  you,  and  repeat  it  before  God,  to  the 
queen  belong  my  whole  life,  my  whole  being,  and  thought. 
I  love  you,  Margaret!  Every  thing  which  can  make  my 
life  happy  will  come  from  you,  and  yet  I  shall  be  ready 
every  hour  to  leave  you — to  see  my  happiness  go  to  ruin 
10 


140  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

without  a  complaint,  without  a  sigh,  if  I  can  be  of  service 
to  the  queen.  You  my  heart  loves ;  her  my  soul  adores. 
Wherever  I  shall  be,  Margaret,  if  the  call  of  the  queen 
comes  to  me,  I  shall  follow  it,  even  if  I  know  that  death 
lurks  at  the  door  behind  which  the  queen  awaits  me.  We 
stand  before  a  dark  and  tempestuous  time,  and  our  country 
is  to  be  torn  with  fearful  strife.  All  passions  are  unfet- 
tered, all  want  to  fight  for  freedom,  and  against  the  chains 
with  which  the  royal  government  has  held  them  bound. 
An  abyss  has  opened  between  the  crown  and  the  nation, 
and  the  States- General  and  the  Third  Estate  will  not  close 
it,  but  only  widen  it.  I  tell  you,  Margaret,  dark  days  are 
approaching;  I  see  them  coming,  and  I  cannot,  for  your 
sake,  withdraw  from  them,  for  I  am  the  soldier  of  the 
queen.  I  must  keep  guard  before  her  door,  and,  if  I  can- 
not save  her,  I  must  die  in  her  service.  Know  this,  Mar- 
garet, but  know,  too,  that  I  love  you.  Let  me  repeat,  that 
from  you  alone  all  fortune  and  happiness  can  come  to  me, 
and  then  do  you  decide.  Will  you,  after  all  that  I  have 
told  you,  still  accept  my  hand,  which  I  offer  you  in  tender- 
est  affection?  Will  you  be  my  wife,  knowing  that  my  life 
belongs  not  to  you  alone,  but  still  more  to  another?  Will 
you  share  with  me  the  dangers  of  a  stormy  time,  of  an  in- 
evitable future  with  me,  and  devote  yourself  with  me  to 
the  service  of  the  queen?  Examine  yourself,  Margaret, 
before  you  answer.  Do  not  forget  your  great  and  noble 
heart;  consider  that  it  is  a  vast  sacrifice  to  devote  your  life 
to  a  man  who  is  prepared  every  hour  to  give  his  life  for 
another  woman — to  leave  the  one  he  loves,  and  to  go  to  his 
death  in  defence  of  his  queen.  Prove  your  heart;  and,  if 
you  find  that  the  sacrifice  is  too  great,  turn  your  face  away 
from  me,  and  I  will  quickly  go  my  way — will  not  complain, 
will  think  that  it  happens  rightly,  will  love  you  my  whole 
life  long,  and  thank  you  for  the  pleasant  hours  which  your 
love  has  granted  to  me." 

He  had  dropped  from  the  divan  upon  his  knee,  and 
looked  up  to  her  with  supplicating  and  anxious  eyes. 

But  Margaret  did  not  turn  her  face  away  from  him.  A 
heavenly  smile  played  over  her  features,  her  eye  beamed 
with  love  and  emotion.  And  as  her  glance  sank  deep  into 
the  heart  of  her  lover,  he  caught  the  look  as  if  it  had  been 


BEFORE   THE   MARRIAGE.  141 

a  ray  of  sunlight.  She  laid  her  arms  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  pressing  his  head  to  her  bosom,  she  bowed  over  him 
and  kissed  his  black,  curly  hair. 

"Ah!  I  love  you,  Louis,"  she  whispered.  "I  am  ready 
to  devote  my  life  to  you,  to  share  your  dangers  with  you, 
and  in  all  contests  to  stand  by  your  side.  Soldier  of  the 
queen,  in  me  you  shall  always  have  a  comrade.  With  you 
I  will  fight  for  her,  with  you  die  for  her,  if  it  must  be. 
We  will  have  a  common  love  for  her,  we  will  serve  her  in 
common,  and  with  fidelity  and  love  thank  her  for  the  good 
which  she  has  done  to  you  and  your  father." 

"Blessings  upon  you,  Margaret!"  cried  Toulan,  as 
breaking  into  tears  he  rested  his  head  upon  the  knee  of  his 
affianced.  "  Blessings  on  you,  angel  of  my  love  and  happi- 
ness!" Then  he  sprang  up,  and,  drawing  the  young  girl 
within  his  arms,  he  impressed  a  glowing  kiss  upon  her  lips. 
"  That  is  my  betrothal  kiss,  Margaret;  now  you  are  mine; 
in  this  hour  our  souls  are  united  in  never-ending  love  and 
faithfulness.  Nothing  can  separate  us  after  this,  for  we 
journey  hand  in  hand  upon  the  same  road ;  we  have  the 
same  great  and  hallowed  goal !  Now  come,  my  love,  let  us 
take  our  place  before  the  altar  of  God,  and  testify  with  an 
oath  to  the  love  which  we  cherish  toward  our  queen!" 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and,  both  smiling,  both  with 
beaming  faces,  left  the  room,  and  joined  the  wedding 
guests  who  had  long  been  waiting  for  them  with  growing 
impatience.  They  entered  the  carriages  and  drove  to  the 
church.  With  joyful  faces  the  bridal  pair  pledged  their 
mutual  fidelity  before  the  altar,  and  their  hands  pressed 
one  another,  and  their  eyes  met  with  a  secret  understand- 
ing of  all  that  was  meant  at  that  wedding.  They  both 
knew  that  at  that  moment  they  were  pledging  their  fidelity 
to  the  queen,  and  that,  while  seeming  to  give  themselves 
away  to  each  other,  they  were  really  giving  themselves  to 
their  sovereign. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  they  left  the  church 
of  St.  Louis  to  repair  to  the  wedding  dinner,  which  Coun- 
cillor Bugeaud  had  ordered  to  be  prepared  in  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  restaurants  of  Versailles. 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  now,  my  dear  son,"  he  said  to 
Toulan — "will  you  not  tell  me  now  why  you  wish  so 


142  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

strongly  to  celebrate  the  wedding  in  Versailles,  and  not  in 
Paris,  and  why  in  the  church  of  St.  Louis?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  father,"  answered  Toulan,  pressing  the 
arm  of  his  bride  closer  to  his  heart.  "  I  wanted  here, 
where  the  country  erects  its  altar,  where  in  a  few  days  the 
nation  will  meet  face  to  face  these  poor  earthly  majesties; 
here,  where  in  a  few  days  the  States-General  will  convene, 
to  defend  the  right  of  the  people  against  the  prerogative  of 
the  sovereign,  here  alone  to  give  to  my  life  its  new  conse- 
cration. Versailles  will  from  this  time  be  doubly  dear  to 
me.  I  shall  owe  to  it  my  life's  happiness  as  a  man,  my 
freedom  as  a  citizen.  They  have  done  me  the  honor  in 
Eouen  to  elect  me  to  a  place  in  the  Third  Estate,  and  as, 
in  a  few  days,  the  Assembly  of  the  Nation  will  meet  here 
in  Versailles,  I  wanted  my  whole  future  happiness  to  be 
connected  with  the  place.  And  I  wanted  to  be  married  in 
St.  Louis's  church,  because  I  love  the  good  King  Louis. 
He  is  the  true  and  sincere  friend  of  the  nation,  and  he 
would  like  to  make  his  people  happy,  if  the  queen,  the 
Austrian,  would  allow  it." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  sighed  the  councillor,  who,  in  spite  of 
his  relation  to  Madame  de  Campan,  belonged  to  the  op- 
ponents of  the  queen — "  yes,  indeed,  if  the  Austrian  woman 
allowed  it.  But  she  is  not  willing  that  France  should  be 
happy.  Woe  to  the  queen ;  all  our  misery  comes  from  her !" 


CHAPTEK    IX. 

THE   OPENING   OF  THE   STATES-GENERAL. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  5th  of  May,  1789,  the  solemn 
opening  of  the  States-General  of  France  was  to  occur  at 
Versailles.  This  early  date  was  appointed  for  the  convoca- 
tion of  the  estates,  in  order  to  be  able  to  protract  as  much 
as  possible  the  ceremonial  proceedings.  But  at  the  same 
time  this  occasion  was  to  be  improved  in  preparing  a  sen- 
sible humiliation  for  the  members  of  the  Third  Estate. 

In  the  avenue  of  the  Versailles  palace  a  large  and  fine 
hall  was  fixed  upon  as  the  most  appropriate  place  for  re- 
ceiving the  twelve  hundred  representatives  of  France,  and 


THE   OPENING   OF   THE   STATES -GENEEAL.       143 

a  numerous  company  of  spectators  besides;  and,  being 
chosen,  was  appropriately  fitted  up.  Louis  XVI.  himself, 
who  was  very  fond  of  sketching  and  drawing  architectural 
plans,  had  busied  himself  in  the  most  zealous  way  with  the 
arrangements  and  decorations  of  the  hall. 

It  had  long  been  a  matter  of  special  interest  to  the  king 
to  fit  up  the  room  which  was  to  receive  the  representatives 
of  the  nation,  in  a  manner  which  would  be  worthy  of  so 
significant  an  occasion.  He  had  himself  selected  the 
hangings  and  the  curtains  which  were  to  protect  the  au- 
dience from  the  too  glaring  light  of  the  day. 

When  the  members  of  the  Third  Estate  arrived,  they 
saw  with  the  greatest  astonishment  that  they  were  not  to 
enter  the  hall  by  the  same  entrance  which  was  appropri- 
ated to  the  representatives  of  the  nobility  and  the  clergy, 
who  were  chosen  at  the  same  time  with  themselves.  While 
for  the  last  two  the  entrance  was  appointed  through  the 
main  door  of  the  hall,  the  commoners  were  allowed  to  enter 
by  a  rear  door,  opening  into  a  dark  and  narrow  corridor, 
where,  crowded  together,  they  were  compelled  to  wait  till 
the  doors  were  opened. 

Almost  two  hours  elapsed  before  they  were  allowed  to 
pass  out  of  this  dark  place  of  confinement  into  the  great 
hall,  at  a  signal  from  the  Marquis  de  Brize,  the  master  of 
ceremonies. 

A  splendid  scene  now  greeted  their  eyes.  The  Salle  de 
Menus,  which  had  been  fitted  up  for  the  reception  of  the 
nobility,  displayed  within  two  rows  of  Ionic  pillars,  which 
gave  to  the  hall  an  unwonted  air  of  dignity  and  solemnity. 
The  hall  was  lighted  mainly  from  above,  through  a  sky- 
light, which  was  covered  with  a  screen  of  white  sarcenet. 
A  gentle  light  diffused  itself  throughout  the  room,  making 
one  object  as  discernible  as  another.  In  the  background 
the  throne  could  be  seen  on  a  richly  ornamented  estrade 
and  beneath  a  gilded  canopy,  an  easy-chair  for  the  queen, 
tabourets  for  the  princesses,  and  chairs  for  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  royal  family.  Below  the  estrade  stood  the 
bench  devoted  to  the  ministers  and  the  secretaries  of  state. 
At  the  right  of  the  throne,  seats  had  been  placed  for  the 
clergy,  on  the  left  for  the  nobility ;  while  in  front  were  the 
six  hundred  chairs  devoted  to  the  Third  Estate. 


144  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

The  Marquis  de  Brize,  with  two  assistant  masters  of 
ceremonies,  now  began  to  assign  the  commoners  to  their 
seats,  in  accordance  with  the  situation  of  the  districts 
which  they  represented. 

As  the  Duke  d' Orleans  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  other 
deputies  of  Crespy,  there  arose  from  the  amphitheatre, 
where  the  spectators  sat,  a  gentle  sound  of  applause,  which 
increased  in  volume,  and  was  repeated  by  some  of  the  com- 
moners, when  it  was  noticed  that  the  duke  made  a  clergy- 
man, who  had  gone  behind  him  in  the  delegation  from  this 
district,  go  in  front  of  him,  and  did  not  desist  till  the 
round-bellied  priest  had  really  taken  his  place  before  him. 

In  the  mean  time  the  bench  of  the  ministers  had  begun 
to  fill.  They  appeared  as  a  body,  clothed  in  rich  uniforms, 
heavy  with  gold.  Only  one  single  man  among  them  ap- 
peared in  simple  citizen's  clothing,  and  bearing  himself  as 
naturally  as  if  he  were  engaged  in  business  of  the  state,  or 
in  ordinary  parlor  conversation,  and  by  no  means  as  if 
taking  part  in  an  extraordinary  solemnity.  As  soon  as  he 
was  seen,  there  arose  on  all  sides,  as  much  in  the  assembly 
as  on  the  tribune,  a  movement  as  of  joy  which  culminated 
in  a  general  clapping  of  hands. 

The  man  who  received  this  salutation  was  the  newly- 
appointed  minister  of  finance,  Necker,  to  whom  the  nation 
was  looking  for  a  reestablishment  of  its  prosperity  and  of 
its  credit. 

Necker  manifested  only  by  a  thoughtful  smile,  which 
mounted  to  his  earnest,  thought-furrowed  face,  that  he 
was  conscious  to  whom  the  garland  of  supreme  popularity 
was  extended  at  this  moment. 

Next,  the  deputation  of  Provence  appeared,  in  the  midst 
of  which  towered  Count  Mirabeau,  with  his  proud,  erect 
bearing,  advancing  to  take  the  place  appointed  for  him. 
His  appearance  was  the  sign  for  a  few  hands  to  commence 
clapping  in  a  distant  part  of  the  hall,  in  honor  of  a  man-  so 
much  talked  of  in  France,  and  of  whom  such  strange  things 
were  said.  But  at  this  instant  the  king  appeared,  accom- 
panied by  the  queen,  followed  by  the  princes  and  princesses 
of  the  royal  family. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  king,  the  whole  assembly  broke 
into  a  loud,  enthusiastic  shout  of  applause  and  of  joy. 


THE   OPENING    OF   THE    STATES -GENERAL.       145 

The  Third  Estate  as  well,  at  a  signal  from  Count  Mirabeau, 
had  quickly  risen,  but  continued  to  stand  without  bending 
the  knee,  as  had  been,  at  the  last  time  when  all  the  estates 
were  assembled,  the  invariable  rule.  Only  one  of  the  lepre- 
sentatives  of  the  Third  Estate,  a  young  man  with  energetic, 
proud  face,  and  dark,  glowing  eyes,  bent  his  knee  when  he 
saw  the  queen  entering  behind  the  king.  But  the  power- 
ful hand  of  his  neighbor  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder  and 
drew  him  quickly  up. 

"Mr.  Deputy,"  whispered  this  neighbor  to  him,  "it  be- 
comes the  representatives  of  the  nation  to  stand  erect 
before  the  crown." 

"  It  is  true,  Count  Mirabeau,"  answered  Toulan.  "  I  did 
not  bend  my  knee  to  the  crown,  but  to  the  queen  as  a 
beautiful  woman." 

Mirabeau  made  no  reply,  but  turned  his  flaming  eyes  to 
the  king. 

Louis  XVI.  appeared  that  day  arrayed  in  the  great  royal 
ermine,  and  wore  upon  his  head  a  plumed  hat,  whose  band 
glistened  with  great  diamonds,  while  the  largest  in  the 
royal  possession,  the  so-called  Titt,  formed  the  centre,  and 
threw  its  rays  far  and  wide.  The  king  appeared  at  the 
outset  to  be  deeply  moved  at  the  reception  which  had  been 
given  him.  A  smile,  indicating  that  his  feelings  were 
touched,  played  upon  his  face.  But  afterward,  when  all 
was  still,  and  the  king  saw  the  grave,  manly,  marked  faces 
of  the  commoners  opposite  him,  his  manner  became  con- 
fused, and  for  an  instant  he  seemed  to  tremble. 

The  queen,  however,  looked  around  her  with  a  calm  and 
self-possessed  survey.  Her  fine  eyes  swept  slowly  and 
searchingly  over  the  rows  of  grave  men  who  sat  opposite 
the  royal  couple,  and  dwelt  a  moment  on  Toulan,  as  if 
she  recalled  in  him  the  young  man  who,  two  years  before, 
had  brought  the  message  of  Cardinal  Rohan's  acquittal. 
A  painful  smile  shot  for  an  instant  over  her  fine  features. 
Yes,  she  had  recognized  him ;  the  young  man  who,  at  Ma- 
dame de  Campan's  room,  had  sworn  a  vow  of  eternal  fidelity 
to  her.  And  now  he  sat  opposite  her,  on  the  benches  of 
the  commoners,  among  her  enemies,  who  gazed  at  her  with 
angry  looks.  That  was  his  way  of  fulfilling  the  vow  which 
he  had  made  of  his  own  free  will! 


146  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  wondered  at  nothing  now;  she 
had  witnessed  the  falling  away  of  so  many  friends,  she  had 
been  forsaken  by  so  many  who  were  closely  associated  with 
her,  and  who  were  indebted  to  her,  that  it  caused  her  no 
surprise  that  the  young  man  who  hardly  knew  her,  who 
had  admired  her  in  a  fit  of  youthful  rapture,  had  done  like 
all  the  rest  in  joining  the  number  of  her  enemies. 

Marie  Antoinette  sadly  let  her  eyes  fall.  She  could  look 
at  nothing  more ;  she  had  in  this  solemn  moment  received 
a  new  wound,  seen  a  new  deserter! 

Toulan  read  her  thoughts  in  her  sad  mien,  on  her  throb- 
bing forehead,  but  his  own  countenance  remained  cheerful 
and  bright. 

"  She  will  live  to  see  the  day  when  she  will  confess  that 
I  am  her  friend,  am  true  to  her,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  And  on  that  day  I  shall  be  repaid  for  the  dagger-thrusts 
which  I  have  just  received  from  her  eyes.  Courage,  Tou- 
lan, courage!  Hold  up  your  head  and  be  strong.  The 
contest  has  begun;  you  must  fight  it  through  or  die!" 

But  the  queen  did  not  raise  her  head  again.  She  looked 
unspeakably  sad  in  her  simple,  unadorned  attire — in  her 
modest,  gentle  bearing — and  it  was  most  touching  to  see 
the  pale,  fair  features  which  sought  in  vain  to  disclose 
nothing  of  the  painful  emotions  of  her  soul. 

The  king  now  arose  from  his  throne  and  removed  his 
plumed  hat.  At  once  Marie  Antoinette  rose  from  her  arm- 
chair, in  order  to  listen  standing  to  the  address  of  the  king. 

"Madame,"  said  the  king,  bowing  to  her  lightly,  "ma- 
dame,  be  seated,  I  beg  of  you." 

"Sire,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette,  calmly,  "allow  me 
to  stand,  for  it  does  not  become  a  subject  to  sit  while  the 
king  is  standing." 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  rows  of  men,  and  loud, 
scornful  laughter  from  one  side.  Marie  Antoinette  shrank 
back  as  if  an  adder  had  wounded  her,  and  with  a  flash  of 
wrath  her  eyes  darted  in  the  direction  whence  the  laugh 
had  come.  It  was  from  Philip  d'Orleans.  He  did  not 
take  the  trouble  to  smooth  down  his  features;  he  looked 
with  searching,  defiant  gaze  over  to  the  queen,  proclaim- 
ing to  her  in  this  glance  that  he  was  her  death-foe,  that  he 
was  bent  on  revenge  for  the  scorn  which  she  had  poured 


THE    OPENING   OF   THE    STATES- GENERAL.       147 

out  on  the  spendthrift — revenge  for  the  joke  which  she 
had  once  made  at  his  expense  before  the  whole  court.  It 
was  at  the  time  when  the  Duke  d'Orleans,  spendthrift  and 
miser  at  the  same  time,  had  rented  the  lower  rooms  of 
his  palace  to  be  used  as  stores.  On  his  next  appearance 
at  Versailles,  Marie  Antoinette  said :  "  Since  you  have  be- 
come a  shopkeeper,  we  shall  probably  see  you  at  Versailles 
only  on  Sundays  and  holidays,  when  your  stores  are  closed !" 

Philip  d'Orleans  thought  of  this  at  this  moment,  as  he 
stared  at  the  queen  with  his  laughing  face,  while  his  looks 
were  threatening  vengeance  and  requital. 

The  king  now  began  the  speech  with  which  he  proposed 
to  open  the  assembly  of  his  estates.  The  queen  listened 
with  deep  emotion ;  a  feeling  of  unspeakable  sorrow  filled 
her  soul,  and  despite  all  her  efforts  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  which  leisurely  coursed  down  her  cheeks.  When, 
at  the  close  of  his  address,  the  king  said  that  he  was  the 
truest  and  most  faithful  friend  of  the  people,  and  that 
France  had  his  whole  love,  the  queen  looked  up  with  a 
gentle,  beseeching  expression,  and  her  eyes  seemed  as  if 
they  wanted  to  say  to  the  deputies,  "  I,  too,  am  a  friend  of 
the  people!  I,  too,  love  France!" 

The  king  ended  his  address;  it  was  followed  by  a  pro- 
longed and  lively  clapping  of  hands,  and  sitting  down  upon 
the  chair  of  the  throne,  he  covered  his  head  with  the 
jewelled  chapeau. 

At  the  same  moment  all  the  noblemen  who  were  in  the 
hall  put  on  their  own  hats.  At  once  Count  Mirabeau,  the 
representative  of  the  Third  Estate,  put  on  his  hat;  other 
deputies  followed  his  example,  but  Toulan,  whom  Mirabeau 
had  before  hindered  from  kneeling — Toulan  now  wanted  to 
prevent  the  proud  democrats  covering  themselves  in  pres- 
ence of  the  queen. 

"Hats  off!"  he  cried,  with  a  loud  voice,  and  here  and 
there  in  the  hall  the  same  cry  was  repeated.  . 

But  from  other  sides  there  arose  a  different  cry,  "  Hats 
on!  Be  covered!" 

Scarcely  had  the  ear  of  the  king  caught  the  discordant 
cry  which  rang  up  and  down  the  hall,  when  he  snatched 
his  hat  from  his  head,  and  at  once  the  whole  assembly  fol- 
lowed his  example. 


148  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Toulan  had  gained  his  point,  the  assembly  remained 
uncovered  in  presence  of  the  queen. 

At  last,  after  four  long,  painful  hours,  the  ceremony  was 
ended ;  the  queen  followed  the  example  of  the  king,  rising, 
greeting  the  deputies  with  a  gentle  inclination  of  her  head, 
and  leaving  the  hall  at  the  side  of  the  king. 

Some  of  the  deputies  cried,  "Long  live  the  king!"  but 
their  words  died  away  without  finding  any  echo.  Not  a 
single  voice  was  raised  in  honor  of  the  queen !  But  out- 
side, on  the  square,  there  were  confused  snouts;  the  crowd 
of  people  pressed  hard  up  to  the  door,  and  called  for  the 
queen.  They  had  seen  the  deputies  as  they  entered  the 
hall ;  they  had  seen  the  king  as  he  had  attended  divine  ser- 
vice at  the  church  of  St.  Louis.  Now  the  people  were 
curious  to  see  the  queen! 

A  joyful  look  passed  over  the  face  of  the  queen  as  she 
heard  those  cries.  For  a  long  time  she  had  not  heard  such 
acclaims.  Since  the  unfortunate  1786,  since  the  necklace 
trial,  they  had  become  more  rare ;  at  last,  they  had  ceased 
altogether,  and  at  times  the  queen,  when  she  appeared  in 
public,  was  hailed  with  loud  hisses  and  angry  murmurs. 

"The  queen!  The  queen!"  sounded  louder  and  louder 
in  the  great  square.  Marie  Antoinette  obeyed  the  cry, 
entered  the  great  hall,  had  the  doors  opened  which  led  to 
the  balcony,  went  out  and  showed  herself  to  the  people, 
and  greeted  them  with  friendly  smiles. 

But,  instead  of  the  shouts  of  applause  which  she  had 
expected,  the  crowd  relapsed  at  once  into  a  gloomy  silence. 
Not  a  hand  was  raised  to  greet  her,  not  a  mouth  was 
opened  to  cry  "  Long  live  the  queen!" 

Soon,  however,  there  was  heard  a  harsh  woman's  voice 
shouting,  "Long  live  the  Duke  d'Orleans!  Long  life  to 
the  friend  of  the  pe*ople!" 

The  queen,  pale  and  trembling,  reeled  back  from  the 
balcony,  and  sank  almost  in  a  swoon  into  the  arms  of  the 
Duchess  de  Polignac,  who  was  behind  her.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  a  convulsive  spasm  shook  her  breast. 

Through  the  opened  doors  of  the  balcony  the  shouts  of 
the  people  could  be  heard  all  the  time,  "  Long  live  the 
Dnke  d'Orleans!" 

The  queen,  still  in  her  swoon,  was  carried  into  her  apart- 


THE  INHERITANCE  OP  THE  DAUPHIN.  149 

merits  and  laid  upon  her  bed;  only  Madame  de  Campan 
remained  in  front  of  it  to  watch  the  queen,  who,  it  was 
supposed,  had  fallen  asleep. 

A  deep  silence  prevailed  in  the  room,  and  the  stillness 
awoke  Marie  Antoinette  from  her  half  insensibility.  She 
opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing  Campan  kneeling  before  her 
bed,  she  threw  her  arms  around  the  faithful  friend,  and 
with  gasping  breath  bowed  her  head  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Campan,"  she  cried,  with  loud,  choking  voice, 
"  ruin  is  upon  me !  I  am  undone !  All  my  happiness  is 
over,  and  soon  my  life  will  be  over  too !  I  have  to-day 
tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death  !  We  shall  never  be  happy 
more,  for  destruction  hangs  over  us,  and  our  death- 
sentence  is  pronounced ! " 


CHAPTEE    X. 

THE   INHERITANCE   OF  THE   DAUPHIN. 

FOR  four  weeks  the  National  Assembly  met  daily  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  that  is  to  say,  for  four  weeks  the  political  excite- 
ment grew  greater  day  by  day,  the  struggle  of  the  parties 
more  pronounced  and  fierce,  only  with  this  qualification,  that 
the  party  which  attacked  the  queen  was  stronger  than  that 
which  defended  her.  Or  rather,  to  express  the  exact 
truth,  there  was  no  party  for  Marie  Antoinette ;  there  were 
only  here  and  there  devoted  friends,  who  dared  to  encoun- 
ter the  odium  which  their  position  called  down  upon 
them — dared  face  the  calumnies  which  were  set  in  circula- 
tion by  the  other  parties:  that  of  the  people,  the  demo- 
crats; that  of  Orleans;  that  of  the  princes  and  princesses 
of  the  royal  family.  All  these  united  their  forces  in  order 
to  attack  the  "  Austrian,"  to  obscure  the  last  gleams  of  the 
love  and  respect  which  were  paid  to  her  in  happier  days. 

When  Mirabeau  made  the  proposition  in  the  National 
Assembly  that  the  person  of  the  king  should  be  declared 
inviolable,  there  arose  from  all  these  four  hundred  repre- 
sentatives of  the  French  nation  only  one  man  who  dared  to 
declare  with  a  loud  voice  and  with  defiant  face,  "  The  per- 
sons of  the  king  and  queen  shall  be  declared  inviolable!" 


150  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

This  was  Toulan,  the  "soldier  of  the  queen."  But  the 
Assembly  replied  to  this  demand  only  with  loud  murmurs, 
and  scornful  laughter ;  not  a  voice  was  raised  in  support  of 
this  last  cry  in  favor  of  the  queen,  and  the  Assembly  de- 
creed only  this:  "  The  person  of  the  king  is  inviolable." 

"That  means,"  said  the  queen  to  the  police  minister 
Brienne,  who  brought  the  queen  every  morning  tidings  of 
what  had  occurred  at  Paris  and  Versailles,  "  that  means 
that  my  death-warrant  was  signed  yesterday." 

"  Your  majesty  goes  too  far!"  cried  the  minister  in  hor- 
ror, "  I  think  that  this  has  an  entirely  different  meaning. 
The  National  Assembly  has  not  pronounced  the  person  of 
the  queen  inviolable,  because  they  want  to  say  that  the 
queen  has  nothing  to  do  with  politics,  and  therefore  it  is 
unnecessary  to  pass  judgment  upon  the  inviolability  of  the 
queen." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  queen,  "I  should  have  been  happy  if 
I  had  not  been  compelled  to  trouble  myself  with  these 
dreadful  politics.  It  certainly  was  not  in  my  wish  nor  in 
my  character.  My  enemies  have  compelled  me  to  it ;  it  is 
they  who  have  turned  the  simple,  artless  queen  into  an 
intriguer." 

"Ah!  madam!"  said  the  minister,  astonished,  "you  use 
there  too  harsh  a  word ;  you  speak  as  if  they  belonged  to 
your  enemies." 

"No,  I  use  the  right  word,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette, 
sadly.  "  My  enemies  have  made  an  intriguer  of  me. 
Every  woman  who  goes  beyond  her  knowledge  and  the 
bounds  of  her  duty  in  meddling  with  politics  is  nothing 
better  than  an  intriguer.  You  see  at  least  that  I  do  not 
flatter  myself,  although  it  troubles  me  to  have  to  give 
myself  so  bad  a  name.  The  Queens  of  France  are  happy 
only  when  they  have  nothing  to  trouble  themselves  about, 
and  reserve  only  influence  enough  to  give  pleasure  to  their 
friends,  and  reward  their  faithful  servants.  Do  you  know 
what  recently  happened  to  me?"  continued  the  queen, 
with  a  sad  smile.  "  As  I  was  going  into  the  privy  council 
chamber  to  have  a  consultation  with  the  king,  I  heard, 
while  passing  (Eil  de  Boauf,  one  of  the  musicians  saying  so 
loud  that  I  had  to  listen  to  every  word,  'A  queen  who  does 
her  duty  stays  in  her  own  room  and  busies  herself  with  her 


THE   INHERITANCE   OF   THE   DAUPHIN.          151 

sewing  and  knitting.'  I  said  within  myself,  'Poor  fellow, 
you  are  right,  but  you  don't  know  my  unhappy  condition; 
I  yield  only  to  necessity,  and  my  bad  luck  urges  me  for- 
ward.'  "  * 

"Ah!  madame,"  said  the  minister  with  a  sigh,  "would 
that  they  who  accuse  you  of  mingling  in  politics  out  of  am- 
bition and  love  of  power — would  that  they  could  hear  your 
majesty  complain  of  yourself  in  these  moving  words!" 

"My  friend,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  sad  smile, 
"  if  they  heard  it  they  would  say  that  it  was  only  something 
learned  by  heart,  with  which  I  was  trying  to  disarm  the 
righteous  anger  of  my  enemies.  It  is  in  vain  to  want  to 
excuse  or  justify  myself,  for  no  one  will  hear  a  word.  I 
must  be  guilty,  I  must  be  criminal,  that  they  who  accuse 
me  may  appear  to  have  done  right ;  that  they  may  ascend 
while  they  pull  me  down.  But  let  us  not  speak  more  of 
this !  I  know  my  future,  I  feel  it  clear  and  plain  in  my 
mind  and  in  my  soul  that  I  am  lost,  but  I  will  at  least 
fight  courageously  and  zealously  till  the  last  moment;  and, 
if  I  must  go  down,  it  shall  be  at  least  with  honor,  true  to 
myself  and  true  to  the  views  and  opinions  in  which  I  have 
been  trained.  Now,  go  on;  let  me  know  the  new  libels 
and  accusations  which  have  been  disseminated  about  me." 

The  minister  drew  from  his  portfolio  a  whole  package  of 
pamphlets,  and  spread  them  upon  a  little  table  before  the 
queen. 

"So  much  at  once!"  said  the  queen,  sadly,  turning  over 
the  papers.  "  How  much  trouble  I  make  to  my  enemies, 
and  how  much  they  must  hate  me  that  I  have  such  tenacity 
of  life!  Here  is  a  pamphlet  entitled  'Good  advice  to 
Madame  Deficit  to  leave  France  as  soon  as  possible. '  '  Ma- 
dame Deficit!'  that  means  me,  doesn't  it?" 

"  It  is  a  name,  your  majesty,  which  the  wickedness  of 
the  Duke  d'Orleans  has  imposed  upon  your  majesty,"  an- 
swered the  minister,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

The  eyes  of  the  queen  flashed  in  anger.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  utter  a  choleric  word,  but  she  governed  herself, 
and  went  on  turning  over  the  pamphlets  and  caricatures. 
While  doing  that,  while  reading  the  words  charged  with 

*  The  queen's  own  words.  —See  "M£moires  de  Madame  de  Campari,"  vol. 
ii.,p.  32. 


152  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

poison  of  wickedness  and  hate,  the  tears  coursed  slowly 
over  her  cheeks,  and  once  in  a  while  a  convulsive  gasp 
forced  itself  from  her  breast. 

Brienne  pitied  the  deep  sorrow  of  the  queen.  He  begged 
her  to  discontinue  this  sad  perusal.  He  wanted  to  gather 
up  again  the  contumelious  writings,  but  Marie  Antoinette 
held  his  hand  back. 

"  I  must  know  every  thing,  every  thing,"  said  she.  "  Go 
on  bringing  me  every  thing,  and  do  not  be  hindered  by 
my  tears.  It  is  of  course  natural  that  I  am  sensitive  to  the 
evil  words  that  are  spoken  about  me,  and  to  the  bad  opinion 
that  is  cherished  toward  me  by  a  people  that  I  love,  and  to 
win  whose  love  I  am  prepared  to  make  every  sacrifice."  * 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  cabinet  was  dashed  open 
without  ceremony,  and  the  Duchess  de  Polignac  entered. 

"Forgiveness!  your  majesty,  forgiveness  that  I  have 
ventured  to  disturb  you,  but — " 

"What  is  it?"  cried  the  queen,  springing  up.  "You 
come  to  announce  misfortune  to  me,  duchess.  It  concerns 
the  dauphin,  does  it  not?  His  illness  has  increased?" 

"  Yes,  your  majesty,  cramps  have  set  in,  and  the  phy- 
sicians fear  the  worst." 

"0  God!  0  God!"  cried  the  queen,  raising  both  her 
hands  to  heaven,  "  is  every  misfortune  to  beat  down  upon 
me?  I  shall  lose  my  son,  my  dear  child!  Here  I  sit  weep- 
ing pitiful  tears  about  the  malice  of  my  enemies,  and  all 
this  while  my  child  is  wrestling  in  the  pains  of  death! 
Farewell,  sir,  I  must  go  to  my  child." 

And  the  queen,  forgetting  every  thing  else,  thinking 
only  of  her  child — the  sick,  dying  dauphin — hurried  for- 
ward, dashing  through  the  room  with  such  quick  step  that 
the  duchess  could  scarcely  follow  her. 

"Is  he  dead?"  cried  Marie  Antoinette  to  the  servant 
standing  in  the  antechamber  of  the  dauphin.  She  did  not 
await  the  reply,  but  burst  forward,  hastily  opened  the  door 
of  the  sick-room,  and  entered. 

There  upon  the  bed,  beneath  the  gold-fringed  canopy, 
lay  the  pale,  motionless  boy,  with  open,  staring  eyes,  with 
parched  lips,  and  wandering  mind — and  it  was  her  child, 
it  was  the  Dauphin  of  France. 

*  The  queen's  own  words. —See  Malleville,  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette." 
p.  197. 


THE    INHERITANCE   OF   THE   DAUPHIN.          153 

Around  his  bed  stood  the  physicians,  the  quickly- 
summoned  priests,  and  the  servants,  looking  with  sorrow- 
ful eyes  at  the  poor,  deathly-pale  creature  that  was  now  no 
more  than  a  withered  flower,  a  son  of  dust  that  must  return 
to  dust ;  then  they  looked  sadly  at  the  pale,  trembling  wife 
who  'crouched  before  the  bed,  and  who  now  was  nothing 
more  than  a  sorrow-stricken  mother,  who  must  bow  before 
the  hand  of  Fate,  and  feel  that  she  had  no  more  power  over 
life  and  death  than  the  meanest  of  her  subjects. 

She  bent  over  the  bed;  she  put  her  arms  tenderly 
around  the  little  shrunken  form  of  the  poor  child  that  had 
long  been  sick,  and  that  was  now  confronting  death.  She 
covered  the  pale  face  of  her  son  with  kisses,  and  watered  it 
with  her  tears. 

And  these  kisses,  these  tears  of  his  mother,  awakened  the 
child  out  of  his  stupor,  and  called  him  back  to  life.  The 
Dauphin  Louis  roused  up  once  more,  raised  his  great  eyes, 
and,  when  he  saw  the  countenance  of  his  mother  above  him 
bathed  in  tears,  he  smiled  and  sought  to  raise  his  head  and 
move  his  hand  to  greet  her.  But  Death  had  already  laid 
his  iron  bands  upon  him,  and  held  him  back  upon  the 
couch  of  his  last  sufferings. 

"Are  you  in  pain,  my  child?"  whispered  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, kissing  him  affectionately.  "  Are  you  suffering?" 

The  boy  looked  at  her  tenderly.  "I  do  not  suffer,"  he 
whispered  so  softly  that  it  sounded  like  the  last  breath  of 
a  departing  spirit.  "  I  only  suffer  if  I  see  you  weep, 
mamma."  * 

Marie  Antoinette  quickly  dried  her  tears,  and,  kneeling 
near  the  bed,  found  power  in  her  motherly  love  to  summon 
a  smile  to  her  lips,  in  order  that  the  dauphin,  whose  eyes  re- 
mained fixed  upon  her,  might  not  see  that  she  was  suffering. 

A  deep  silence  prevailed  now  in  the  apartment ;  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  gently- whispered  prayers  of  the  specta- 
tors, and  the  slow,  labored  breathing  of  the  dying  child. 

Once  the  door  was  lightly  opened,  and  a  man's  figure 
stole  lightly  in,  advanced  on  tiptoe  to  the  bed,  and  sank 
on  his  knees  close  by  Marie  Antoinette.  It  was  the  king, 
who  had  just  been  summoned  from  the  council-room  to  see 
his  son  die. 

*Thc  very  words  of  the  dying  dauphin. —See  Weber,  "MSmoires,"  vol.  i., 
p.  209. 


154  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

And  now  with  a  loud  voice  the  priest  began  the  prayers 
for  the  dying,  and  all  present  softly  repeated  them.  Only 
the  queen  could  not ;  her  eyes  were  fastened  upon  her  son, 
who  now  saw  her  no  more,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  the 
last  death-struggle. 

Still  one  last  gasp,  one  last  breath;  then  came  a  cry 
from  Marie  Antoinette's  lips,  and  her  head  sank  upon  the 
hand  of  her  son,  which  rested  in  her  own,  and  which  was 
now  stiff.  A  few  tears  coursed  slowly  over  the  cheeks  of 
the  king,  and  his  hands,  folded  in  prayer,  trembled. 

The  priest  raised  his  arms,  and  with  a  loud,  solemn 
voice  cried :  "  The  Lord  gave,  the  Lord  hath  taken  away, 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.  Amen." 

"Amen,  amen,"  whispered  all  present. 

"Amen,"  said  the  king,  closing  with  gentle  pressure  the 
open  eyes  of  his  son.  "  God  has  taken  you  to  Himself,  my 
son,  perhaps  because  He  wanted  to  preserve  you  from 
much  trouble  and  sorrow.  Blessed  be  His  name!" 

But  the  queen  still  bowed  over  the  cold  face  of  the  child, 
and  kissed  his  lips.  "Farewell,  my  son,"  she  whispered, 
"  farewell !  Ah,  why  could  I  not  die  with  you — with  you 
fly  from  this  pitiful,  sorrow-stricken  world?" 

Then,  as  if  the  queen  regretted  the  words  which  the 
mother  had  spoken  with  sighs,  Marie  Antoinette  rose  from 
her  knees  and  turned  to  the  priest,  who  was  sprinkling  the 
corpse  of  the  dauphin  with  holy  water. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "the  children  of  poor  parents,  who 
may  be  born  to-day  in  Versailles,  are  each  to  receive  from 
me  the  sum  of  a  thousand  francs.  I  wish  that  the  death- 
bed of  my  son  may  be  a  day  of  joy  for  the  poor  who  have 
not,  like  me,  lost  a  child,  but  gained  one,  and  that  the 
lips  of  happy  mothers  may  bless  the  day  on  which  my  boy 
died.  Have  the  goodness  to  bring  me  to-morrow  morning 
a  list  of  the  children  born  to-day." 

"  Come,  Marie,"  said  the  king,  "  the  body  of  our  son  be- 
longs no  more  to  the  living,  but  to  the  grave  of  our  ances- 
tors in  St.  Denis ;  his  soul  to  God.  The  dauphin  is  dead ! 
Long  live  the  dauphin!  Madame  de  Polignac,  conduct 
the  dauphin  to  us  in  the  cabinet  of  his  mother." 

And  with  the  proud  and  dignified  bearing  which  was 
peculiar  to  the  king  in  great  and  momentous  epochs,  he 


THE   INHERITANCE   OF   THE   DAUPHIN.         155 

extended  his  arm  to  the  queen  and  conducted  her  out  of 
the  death-chamber,  and  through  the  adjacent  apartments, 
to  her  cabinet. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  queen,  "here  we  are  alone;  here  I  can 
weep  for  my  poor  lost  child." 

And  she  threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  hus- 
band, and,  leaning  her  head  upon  his  breast,  wept  aloud. 
The  king  pressed  her  closely  to  his  heart,  and  the  tears 
which  flowed  from  his  own  eyes  fell  in  hot  drops  upon  the 
head  of  the  queen. 

Neither  saw  the  door  beyond  lightly  open,  and  the 
Duchess  de  Polignac  appear  there.  But  when  she  saw  the 
royal  pair  in  close  embrace,  when  she  heard  their  loud 
weeping,  she  drew  back,  stooped  down  to  the  little  boy  who 
stood  by  her  side,  whispered  a  few  words  to  him,  and,  while 
gently  pushing  him  forward,  drew  back  herself,  and  gently 
closed  the  door  behind  them.  The  little  fellow  stood  a 
moment  irresolutely  at  the  door,  fixing  his  eyes  now  upon 
his  father  and  mother,  now  upon  the  nosegay  of  violets 
and  roses  which  he  carried  in  his  hand.  The  little  Louis 
Charles  was  of  that  sweet  and  touching  beauty  that  brings 
tears  into  one's  eyes,  and  fills  the  heart  with  sadness,  be- 
cause the  thought  cannot  be  suppressed,  that  life,  with  its 
rough,  wintry  storms,  will  have  no  pity  on  this  tender  blos- 
som of  innocence,  and  that  the  beaming,  angel-face  of  the 
child  must  one  day  be  changed  into  the  clouded,  weather- 
beaten,  furrowed  face  of  the  man.  A  cheering  sight  to 
look  upon  was  the  little,  delicate  figure  of  the  four-year- 
old  boy,  pleasing  in  his  whole  appearance.  Morocco  boots, 
with  red  tips,  covered  his  little  feet;  broad  trousers,  of 
dark-blue  velvet,  came  to  his  knees,  and  were  held  together 
at  the  waist  by  a  blue  silk  sash,  whose  lace-tipped  ends  fell 
at  his  left  side.  He  wore  a  blue  velvet  jacket,  with  a  taste- 
fully embroidered  lace  ruffle  around  the  neck.  The  round, 
rosy  face,  with  the  ruby  lips,  the  dimple  in  the  chin,  the 
large  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  long,  dark  lashes,  and  crowned 
by  the  broad,  lofty  brow,  was  rimmed  around  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  golden  hair,  which  fell  in  long,  heavy  locks  upon 
his  shoulders  and  over  his  neck.  The  child  was  as  beauti- 
ful to  look  upon  as  one  of  the  angels  in  Raphael's  "  Sistine 
Madonna,"  and  he  might  have  been  taken  for  one,  had  it 
11 


156  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

not  been  for  the  silver-embroidered,  brilliant  star  upon  his 
left  side.  This  star,  which  designated  his  princely  rank, 
was  for  the  pretty  child  the  seal  of  his  mortality — the  seal 
which  ruin  had  already  impressed  upon  his  innocent  child's 
breast. 

One  moment  the  boy  stood  indecisively  there,  looking 
at  his  weeping  parents ;  then  he  turned  quickly  forward, 
and,  holding  up  his  nosegay,  he  said :  "  Mamma,  I  have 
brought  you  some  flowers  from  my  garden." 

Marie  Antoinette  raised  her  head,  and  smiled  through 
her  tears  as  she  looked  at  her  son.  The  king  loosened  his 
embrace  from  the  queen,  in  order  to  lift  up  the  prince. 

"  Marie,"  said  he,  holding  him  up  to  his  wife,  "Marie, 
this  is  our  son — this  is  the  Dauphin  of  France." 

Marie  Antoinette  took  his  head  between  her  hands,  and 
looked  long,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  yet  smiling  all  the 
while,  into  the  lovely,  rosy  face  of  her  boy.  Then  she 
stooped  down,  and  impressed  a  long,  tender  kiss  upon  his 
smooth  forehead. 

"God  love  you,  my  child!"  said  she,  solemnly.  "God 
bless  you,  Dauphin  of  France!  May  the  storms  which 
now  darken  our  horizon,  have  long  been  past  when  you 
shall  ascend  the  throne  of  your  fathers!  God  bless  and 
defend  you,  Dauphin  of  France!" 

"But,  mamma,"  asked  the  boy,  timidly,  "why  do  you 
call  me  dauphin  to-day?  I  am  your  little  Louis,  and  I  am 
called  Duke  de  Normandy." 

"My  son,"  said  the  king,  solemnly,  "God  has  been 
pleased  to  give  you  another  name  and  another  calling. 
Your  poor  brother,  Louis,  has  left  us  forever.  He  has 
gone  to  God,  and  you  are  now  Dauphin  of  France!" 

"And  God  grant  that  it  be  for  your  good,"  said  the 
queen,  with  a  sigh. 

The  little  prince  slowly  shook  his  locks.  "  It  certainly 
is  not  for  my  good,"  said  he,  "else  mamma  would  not 
weep." 

"She  is  weeping,  my  child,"  said  the  queen — "she  is 
weeping,  because  your  brother,  who  was  the  dauphin,  has 
left  us." 

"And  will  he  never  come  back?"  asked  the  child, 
eagerly. 


THE    INHERITANCE   OF   THE   DAUPHIN.          157 

"No,  Louis,  he  never  will  come  back." 

The  boy  threw  both  his  arms  around  the  neck  of  the 
queen.  "  Ah!"  he  cried,  "  how  can  any  one  ever  leave  his 
dear  mamma  and  never  come  back?  /  will  never  leave  you, 
mamma!" 

"I  pray  God  you  speak  the  truth,"  sighed  the  queen, 
pressing  him  tenderly  to  herself.  "  I  pray  God  I  may  die 
before  you  both!" 

"Not  before  me — oh,  not  before  me!"  ejaculated  the 
king,  shuddering.  "  Without  you,  my  dear  one,  my  life 
were  a  desert ;  without  you,  the  King  of  France  were  the 
poorest  man  in  the  whole  land!" 

He  smiled  sadly  at  her.  "  And  with  me  he  will  perhaps 
be  the  most  unfortunate  one,"  she  whispered  softly,  as  if 
to  herself. 

"  Never  unfortunate,  if  you  are  with  me,  and  if  you  love 
me,"  cried  the  king,  warmly.  "Weep  no  more;  we  must 
overcome  our  grief,  and  comfort  ourselves  with  what  re- 
mains. I  say  to  you  once  more:  the  dauphin  is  dead,  long 
live  the  dauphin!" 

"Papa  king,"  said  the  boy,  quickly,  "you  say  the 
dauphin  is  dead,  and  has  left  us.  Has  he  taken  every 
thing  away  with  him  that  belongs  to  him?" 

"  No,  my  son,  he  has  left  every  thing.  You  are  now 
the  dauphin,  and  some  time  will  be  King  of  France,  for 
you  are  the  heir  of  your  brother." 

"  What  does  that  mean,  his  heir?"  asked  the  child. 

"It  means,"  answered  the  king,  "that  to  you  belong 
now  the  titles  and  honors  of  your  brother." 

"Nothing  but  that?"  asked  the  prince,  timidly.  "I  do 
not  want  his  titles  and  honors." 

"  You  are  the  heir  to  the  throne ;  you  have  now  the  title 
of  Dauphin  of  France." 

The  little  one  timidly  grasped  the  hand  of  his  mother, 
and  lifted  his  great  blue  eyes  supplicatingly  to  her. 
"  Mamma  queen,"  he  whispered,  "  do  you  not  think  the  title 
of  Duke  de  Normandy  sounds  just  as  well,  or  will  you  love 
me  more,  if  I  am  called  Dauphin  of  France?" 

"No,  my  son,"  answered  the  queen,  "I  shall  not  love 
you  better,  and  I  should  be  very  happy  if  you  were  now 
the  Duke  de  Normandy." 


158  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"Then,  mamma,"  cried  the  boy,  eagerly,  "I  am  not  at 
all  glad  to  receive  this  new  title.  But  I  should  like  to 
know  whether  I  have  received  any  thing  else  from  my  dear 
sick  brother." 

"  Any  thing  else?"  asked  the  king  in  amazement;  "  what 
would  you  desire,  my  child?" 

The  little  prince  cast  down  his  eyes.  "  I  should  not  like 
to  tell,  papa.  But  if  it  is  true  that  the  dauphin  has  left 
us  and  is  not  coming  back  again,  and  yet  has  not  taken 
away  every  thing  which  belongs  to  him,  there  is  something 
which  I  should  very  much  like  to  have,  and  which  would 
please  me  more  than  that  I  am  now  the  dauphin." 

The  king  turned  his  face  inquiringly  to  the  queen.  "  Do 
you  understand,  Marie,  what  he  wants  to  say?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette  softly, 
and  she  walked  quickly  across  the  room,  opened  the  door 
of  the  adjoining  apartment,  and  whispered  a  few  words  to 
the  page  who  was  there.  Then  she  returned  to  the  king, 
but  while  doing  so  she  stepped  upon  the  bouquet  which  had 
fallen  out  of  the  boy's  hands  when  his  father  lifted  him  up. 

"Oh,  my  pretty  violets,  my  pretty  roses,"  cried  the 
prince,  sadly,  and  his  face  put  on  a  sorrowful  expression. 
But  he  quickly  brightened,  and,  looking  up  at  the  queen, 
he  said,  smiling,  "  Mamma  queen,  I  wish  you  always 
walked  on  flowers  which  I  have  planted  and  plucked  for 
you!" 

At  this  moment  the  door  softly  opened,  and  a  little  black 
dog  stepped  in,  and  ran  forward,  whining,  directly  up  to 
the  prince. 

"Moufflet,"  cried  the  child,  falling  upon  his  knee, 
"Moufflet!" 

The  little  dog,  with  its  long,  curly  locks  of  hair,  put  its 
fore-paws  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  boy  and  eagerly  and 
tenderly  licked  his  laughing,  rosy  face. 

"Now,  my  Louis,"  asked  the  queen,  "have  I  guessed 
right? — wasn't  it  the  doggy  that  you  wanted  so  much?" 

"  Mamma  queen  has  guessed  it,"  cried  the  boy  joyfully, 
putting  his  arms  around  the  neck  of  the  dog.  "  Does 
Moufflet  belong  to  my  inheritance  too?  Do  I  receive  him, 
since  my  brother  has  left  him  behind?" 


KING   LOUIS   THE    SIXTEENTH.  159 

"  Yes,  my  son,  the  little  dog  belongs  to  your  inherit- 
ance," answered  the  king,  with  a  sad  smile. 

The  child  shouted  with  pleasure,  and  pressed  the  dog 
close  to  his  breast.  "  Moufflet  is  mine!"  he  cried,  glow- 
ing with  joy,  "  Moufflet  is  my  inheritance!" 

The  queen  slowly  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes,  red  with 
weeping.  "  Oh,  the  innocence  of  childhood,  the  happiness 
of  childhood!"  said  she,  softly,  "why  do  they  not  go  with 
us  through  life?  why  must  we  tread  them  under  feet  like 
the  violets  and  roses  of  my  son?  A  kingdom  falls  to  him 
as  his  portion,  and  yet  he  takes  pleasure  in  the  little  dog 
which  only  licks  his  hands!  Love  is  the  fairest  inherit- 
ance, for  love  remains  with  us  till  death!" 


CHAPTEK    XL 

KING   LOUIS  THE   SIXTEENTH. 

THE  14th  of  July  had  broken  upon  Paris  with  its  fearful 
events.  The  revolution  had  for  the  first  time  opened  the 
crater,  after  subterranean  thunder  had  long  been  heard, 
and  after  the  ground  of  Paris  had  long  been  shaken.  The 
glowing  lava-streams  of  intense  excitement,  popular  risings, 
and  murder,  had  broken  out  and  flooded  all  Paris,  and 
before  them  judgment,  discretion,  and  truth  even,  had 
taken  flight. 

The  people  had  stormed  the  Bastile  with  arms,  killed  the 
governor,  and  for  the  first  time  the  dreadful  cry  "  To  the 
lamp-post!"  was  heard  in  the  streets  of  Paris;  for  the  first 
time  the  iron  arms  of  the  lamp-posts  had  been  transformed 
to  gallows,  on  which  those  were  suspended  whom  the  peo- 
ple had  declared  guilty. 

Meanwhile  the  lava-streams  of  revolution  had  not  yet 
flowed  out  as  far  as  Versailles. 

On  the  evening  of  the  14th  of  July,  peace  and  silence 
had  settled  early  upon  the  palace,  after  a  whole  day  spent 
in  the  apartments  of  the  king  and  queen  with  the  greatest 
anxiety,  and  after  resolution  had  followed  resolution  in  the 
efforts  to  come  to  a  decision. 

Marie   Antoinette  had  early  withdrawn  to  her   rooms. 


160  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

The  king,  too,  had  retired  to  rest,  and  had  already  fallen 
into  a  deep  slumber  upon  his  bed.  He  had  only  slept  a 
few  hours,  however,  when  he  heard  something  moving  near 
his  bed,  with  the  evident  intention  of  awakening  him. 
The  king  recognized  his  valet,  who,  with  signs  of  the  great- 
est alarm  in  his  face,  announced  the  Duke  de  Liancourt, 
grand  maitre  de  la  garde-robe  of  his  majesty,  who  was  in 
the  antechamber,  and  who  pressingly  urged  an  immediate 
audience  with  the  king.  Louis  trembled  an  instant,  and 
tried  to  think  what  to  do.  Then  he  rose  from  his  bed  with  a 
quick  and  energetic  motion,  and  ordered  the  valet  to  dress 
him  at  once.  After  this  had  been  done  with  the  utmost 
rapidity,  the  king  ordered  that  the  Duke  de  Liancourt 
should  be  summoned  to  the  adjacent  apartment,  when  he 
would  receive  him. 

As  the  king  went  out  in  the  greatest  excitement,  he  saw 
the  duke,  whose  devotion  to  the  person  of  the  king  was  well 
known,  standing  before  him  with  pale,  distorted  counte- 
nance and  trembling  limbs. 

"What  has  happened,  my  friend?"  asked  the  king,  in 
breathless  haste. 

"Sire,"  answered  the  Duke  de  Liancourt,  with  sup- 
pressed voice,  "  in  the  discharge  of  my  office,  which  per- 
mits the  closest  approach  to  your  majesty,  I  have  under- 
taken to  bring  you  tidings  which  are  now  so  confirmed, 
and  which  are  so  important  and  dreadful,  that  it  would  be 
a  folly  to  try  to  keep  what  has  happened  longer  from  your 
knowledge. " 

"You  speak  of  the  occurrences  in  the  capital?"  asked 
the  king,  slightly  drawing  back. 

"  I  have  been  told  that  your  majesty  has  not  yet  been  in- 
formed," continued  the  duke,  "and  yet  in  the  course  of 
yesterday  the  most  dreadful  events  occurred  in  Paris. 
The  head  of  the  army  had  not  ventured  to  send  your 
majesty  and  the  cabinet  any  report.  It  was  known  yester- 
day in  Versailles  at  nightfall  that  the  people,  with  arms  in 
their  hands,  had  stormed  and  destroyed  the  Bastile.  I 
have  just  received  a  courier  from  Paris,  and  these  tidings 
are  confirmed  with  the  most  horrible  particularity.  Sire, 
I  held  it  my  duty  as  a  faithful  servant  of  the  crown  to 
break  the  silence  which  has  hitherto  hindered  your  majesty 


KING    LOUIS   THE   SIXTEENTH.  161 

from  seeing  clearly  and  acting  accordingly.  In  Paris,  not 
only  has  the  Bastile  been  stormed  by  the  people,  but  truly 
dreadful  crimes  and  murders  have  taken  place.  The 
bloody  heads  of  Delaunay  and  Flesselles  were  carried  on 
pikes  through  the  city  by  wild  crowds  of  people.  A  part 
of  the  fortifications  of  the  Bastile  have  been  levelled. 
Several  of  the  invalides,  who  were  guarding  the  fort,  have 
been  found  suspended  from  the  lantern-posts.  A  want  of 
fidelity  has  begun  to  appear  in  the  other  regiments.  The 
armed  people  now  arrayed  in  the  streets  of  Paris  are  esti- 
mated at  two  hundred  thousand  men.  They  fe*ar  this  very 
night  a  rising  of  the  whole  population  of  the  city." 

The  king  had  listened  standing,  as  in  a  sad  dream.  His 
face  had  become  pale,  but  his  bearing  was  unchanged. 

"There  is  then  a  revolt!"  said  Louis  XVI. ,  after  a 
pause,  as  if  suddenly  awakening  from  deep  thought. 

"No,  sire,"  answered  the  duke,  earnestly,  "it  is  a  revo- 
lution." 

"The  queen  was  right,"  said  the  monarch,  softly,  to 
himself;  "and  now  rivers  of  blood  would  be  necessary  to 
hide  the  ruin  that  has  grown  so  great.  But  my  resolution 
is  taken ;  the  blood  of  the  French  shall  not  be  poured  out." 

"Sire,"  cried  Liancourt,  with  a  solemn  gesture,  "the 
safety  of  France  and  of  the  royal  family  lies  in  this  expres- 
sion of  your  majesty.  I  ought  to  be  and  I  must  be  plain- 
spoken  this  hour.  The  greatest  danger  lies  in  your 
majesty's  following  the  faithless  counsels  of  your  ministers. 
How  I  bless  this  hour  which  is  granted  me  to  stand  face  to 
face  with  your  majesty,  and  dare  to  address  myself  to  your 
own  judgment  and  to  your  heart!  Sire,  the  spirit  of  the 
infatuated  capital  will  make  rapid  and  monstrous  steps 
forward.  I  conjure  you  make  your  appearance  in  the 
National  Assembly  to-day,  and  utter  there  the  word  of 
peace.  Your  appearance  will  work  wonders ;  it  will  disarm 
the  parties  and  make  this  body  of  men  the  truest  allies  of 
the  crown." 

The  king  looked  at  him  with  a  long,  penetrating  glance. 
The  youthful  fire  in  which  the  noble  duke  had  spoken  ap- 
peared to  move  the  king.  He  extended  his  hand  and 
pressed  the  duke's  in  his  own.  Then  he  said  softly:  "  You 
are  yourself  one  of  the  most  influential  members  of  this 


162  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

National  Assembly,  my  lord  duke.  Can  you  give  me  your 
personal  word  that  my  appearance  there  will  be  viewed  as 
indicating  the  interest  of  the  crown  in  the  welfare  of 
France?" 

At  this  moment  the  first  glow  of  the  morning  entered 
the  apartment,  and  overpowered  the  pale  candle-light  which 
till  then  had  illuminated  the  room. 

"  The  Assembly  longs  every  day  and  every  hour  for  the 
conciliatory  words  of  your  majesty,"  cried  Liancourt. 
"  The  doubts  and  disquiet  into  which  the  National  Assem- 
bly is  falling  more  and  more  every  day  are  not  to  be  dis- 
pelled in  any  other  way  than  by  the  appearance  of  jour 
majesty's  gracious  face.  I  beseech  you  to  appear  to-day  at 
the  National  Assembly.  The  service  of  to-day,  which  be- 
gins in  a  few  hours,  may  take  the  most  unfortunate  turn, 
if  you,  sire,  do  not  take  this  saving  step." 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Monsieur,  together  with 
Count  d'Artois,  entered.  Both  brothers  of  the  king  ap- 
peared to  be  in  the  greatest  excitement.  From  their 
appearance  and  gestures  it  could  be  inferred  that  the  news 
brought  by  the  Duke  de  Liancourt  had  reached  the  palace 
of  Versailles. 

Liancourt  at  once  approached  the  Count  d'Artois,  and 
said  to  him  in  decisive  tones : 

"  Prince,  your  head  is  threatened  by  the  people.  I  have 
with  my  own  eyes  seen  the  poster  which  announces  this 
fearful  proscription." 

The  prince  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  at  these  words,  and 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  like  one  transfixed. 

"It  is  good,  if  the  people  think  so,"  he  said  then,  re- 
covering himself.  "  I  am,  like  the  people,  for  open  war. 
They  want  my  head,  and  I  want  their  heads.  Why  do  we 
not  fire?  A  fixed  policy,  no  quarter  to  the  so-called  free- 
dom ideas — cannon  well  served!  These  alone  can  save  us!" 

"  His  majesty  the  king  has  come  to  a  different  con- 
clusion!" said  the  Duke  de  Liancourt,  bowing  low  before 
the  king,  who  stood  calmly  by  with  folded  arms. 

"  I  beg  my  brothers,  the  Count  de  Provence  and  the 
Count  d'Artois,  to  accompany  me  this  morning  to  the  As- 
sembly of  States-General,"  said  the  king,  in  a  firm  tone. 
"  I  wish  to  go  thither  in  order  to  announce  to  the  Assembly 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SIXTEENTH.  1G3 

my  resolution  to  withdraw  my  troops.  At  the  same  time 
I  shall  announce  to  them  my  decided  wish  that  they  may 
complete  the  work  of  their  counsels  in  peace,  for  I  have 
no  higher  aim  than  through  them  to  learn  the  will  of  the 
nation." 

Count  d'Artois  retreated  a  step  in  amazement.  Upon 
his  mobile  face  appeared  the  sharp,  satirical  expression 
which  was  peculiar  to  the  character  of  the  prince.  It  was 
different  with  Provence,  who,  at  the  king's  words,  quickly 
approached  him  to  press  his  hand  in  token  of  cordial  agree- 
ment and  help. 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  chamber  was  opened, 
and  the  queen,  accompanied  by  several  persons,  her  most 
intimate  companions,  entered  in  visible  excitement. 

"Does  your  majesty  know  what  has  happened?"  she 
asked,  with  pale  face  and  tearful  eyes,  as  she  violently 
grasped  the  king's  hand. 

"It  will  be  all  well  yet,"  said  the  king,  with  gentle 'dig- 
nity; "  it  will  prove  a  help  to  us  that  we  have  nothing  as 
yet  to  accuse  ourselves  with.  I  am  resolved  to  go  to-day 
to  the  National  Assembly,  and  to  show  it  a  sign  of  my  per- 
sonal confidence,  in  announcing  the  withdrawal  of  my 
troops  from  Paris  and  Versailles." 

The  queen  looked  at  her  husband  with  the  greatest 
amazement;  then,  like  one  in  a  trance,  she  dropped  his 
hand  and  stood  supporting  her  fair  head  upon  her  hand, 
with  a  thoughtful,  pained  expression. 

"  By  doing  so  your  majesty  will  make  the  revolution  an 
irrevocable  fact,"  she  then  said,  slowly  raising  her  eyes  to 
him ;  "  and  it  troubles  me,  sire,  that  you  will  again  set  foot 
in  an  Assembly  numbering  so  many,  dreadful  and  hostile 
men,  and  in  which  the  resolution  made  last  month  to  dis- 
band it  ought  to  have  been  carried  into  effect  long  ago." 

"  Has  the  Assembly,  in  fact,  so  many  dreadful  members?" 
asked  the  king,  with  his  good-natured  smile.  "  Yet  I  see 
before  me  here  two  extremely  amiable  members  of  that 
Assembly,  and  their  looks  really  give  me  courage  to  appear 
there.  There  is  my  old,  true  friend,  the  Duke  de  Lian- 
court,  and  even  in  the  train  of  your  majesty  there  is  the 
valiant  Count  de  la  Marck,  whom  T  heartily  welcome. 
May  I  not,  Count  de  la  Marck,  depend  upon  some  favor 


164  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

with  your  colleagues  in  the  National  Assembly?"  asked 
the  king,  with  an  amiable  expression. 

"  Sire,"  answered  the  count,  in  his  most  perfect  court 
manner,  "  in  the  variety  of  persons  constituting  the  Assem- 
bly, I  do  not  know  a  single  one  who  would  be  able  to  close 
his  heart  to  the  direct  word  of  the  monarch,  and  such  con- 
descending grace.  The  nobility,  to  whose  side  I  belong, 
would  find  itself  confirmed  thereby  in  its  fidelity;  the 
clergy  would  thank  God  for  the  manifestation  of  royal 
authority  which  shall  bring  peace;  and  the  Third  Estate 
would  have  to  confess  in  its  astonishment  that  safety  comes 
only  from  the  monarch's  hands." 

The  king  smiled  and  nodded  in  friendly  manner  to  the 
count. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  the  time  is  approach- 
ing for  us  to  go  to  the  Assembly.  Their  royal  highnesses 
Count  de  Provence  and  Count  d'Artois  will  accompany  me. 
I  commission  the  Duke  de  Liancourt  to  go  before  us  to  the 
Salle  des  Menus,  and  to  announce  to  the  Assembly,  directly 
after  the  opening  of  the  session,  that  we  shall  appear  there 
at  once  in  person." 

On  this  the  king  dismissed  all  who  were  present.  The 
queen  took  tender  leave  of  him,  in  a  manner  indicating  her 
excited  feelings.  She  had  never  seen  her  royal  husband 
bearing  himself  in  so  decided  and  confident  a  manner,  and 
it  almost  awakened  new  confidence  in  her  troubled  breast. 
But  at  the  same  moment  all  the  doubts  and  cares  returned, 
and  sadly,  with  drooping  head,  the  queen  withdrew. 

In  the  mean  time,  close  upon  the  opening  of  the  National 
Assembly  that  morning,  stormy  debates  had  begun  about 
the  new  steps  which  they  were  going  to  take  with  the 
monarch. 

Count  Mirabeau  had  just  been  breaking  out  into  an 
anathema  in  flaming  words  about  the  holiday  which  the 
king  had  given  to  the  new  regiments,  when  the  Duke  de 
Liancourt,  who  that  moment  entered  the  hall,  advanced  to 
the  speaker's  desk  and  announced  that  the  king  was  just 
on  the  point  of  coming  to  the  Assembly.  The  greatest 
amazement,  followed  immediately  by  intense  disquiet,  was 
expressed  on  all  sides  at  hearing  this.  Men  sprang  up 
from  their  places  and  formed  scattered  groups  to  talk  over 


KING   LOUIS   THE    SIXTEENTH.  165 

this  unexpected  circumstance  and  come  to  an  understand- 
ing in  advance.  They  spoke  in  loud,  angry  words  about 
the  reception  which  should  be  given  to  the  king  in  the 
National  Assembly,  when  Mirabeau  sprang  upon  the  trib- 
une, and,  with  his  voice  towering  above  every  other  sound, 
cried  that  "  mere  silent  respect  should  be  the  only  reception 
that  we  give  to  the  monarch.  In  a  moment  of  universal 
grief,  silence  is  the  true  lesson  of  kings."  * 

A  resounding  bravo  accompanied  these  words,  which  ap- 
peared to  produce  the  deepest  impression  upon  all  parties 
in  the  Assembly. 

Before  the  room  was  silent,  the  king,  accompanied  by 
his  brothers,  but  with  no  other  retinue  besides,  entered  the 
hall.  Notwithstanding  all  the  plans  and  efforts  which  had 
been  made,  his  appearance  at  this  moment  wrought  so 
powerfully  that,  as  soon  as  they  saw  him,  the  cry  "  Long 
live  the  king!"  was  taken  up  and  repeated  so  often  as  to 
make  the  arched  ceiling  ring. 

The  king  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  Assembly,  bearing 
himself  modestly  and  with  uncovered  head.  He  did  not 
make  use  of  an  arm-chair  which  was  placed  for  him,  but 
remained  standing,  as,  without  any  ceremony,  he  began 
to  address  the  Assembly  with  truly  patriarchal  dignity. 
When  at  the  very  outset  he  said  that  as  the  chief  of  the 
nation,  as  he  called  himself,  he  had  come  with  confidence 
to  meet  the  nation's  representatives,  to  testify  his  grief  for 
what  had  happened,  and  to  consult  them  respecting  the 
re-establishing  of  peace  and  order,  a  pacified  expression 
appeared  upon  almost  all  faces. 

With  gentle  and  almost  humble  bearing  the  king  then 
entered  upon  the  suspicions  that  had  been  breathed,  that 
the  persons  of  the  deputies  were  not  safe.  With  the  tone 
of  an  honest  burgher  he  referred  to  his  own  "  well-known 
character,"  which  made  it  superfluous  for  him  to  dismiss 
such  a  suspicion.  "Ah!"  he  cried,  "it  is  I  who  have 
trusted  myself  to  you !  Help  me  in  these  painful  circum- 
stances to  strengthen  the  welfare  of  the  state.  I  expect  it 
of  the  National  Assembly." 

Then  with  a  tone  of  touching  kindness  he  said :  "  Count- 
ing upon  the  love  and  fidelity  of  my  subjects,  I  have  given 

*  Mirabeau's  own  words.  —See  "M6moires  du  Comte  de  Mirabeau,"  vol.  ii., 
p.  301. 


166  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

orders  to  the  troops  to  withdraw  from  Paris  and  Versailles. 
At  the  same  time  I  commission  and  empower  you  to  convey 
these  my  orders  to  the  capital." 

The  king  now  closed  his  address,  which  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  frequent  expressions  of  delight  and  enthusiasm, 
but  which  was  received  at  the  close  with  a  thunder  of 
universal  applause.  After  the  Archbishop  of  Brienne  had 
expressed  the  thanks  of  the  Assembly  in  a  few  words,  the 
king  prepared  to  leave  the  hall.  At  that  instant  all  pres- 
ent rose  in  order  to  follow  the  king's  steps.  Silently  the 
whole  National  Assembly  became  the  retinue  of  the  king, 
and  accompanied  him  to  the  street. 

The  king  wished  to  return  on  foot  to  the  palace.  Be- 
hind him  walked  the  National  Assembly  in  delighted,  joy- 
ful ranks.  The  startling  importance  of  the  occasion 
seemed  to  have  overpowered  the  most  hostile  and  the  most 
alienated.  An  immense  crowd  of  people,  which  had 
gathered  before  the  door  of  the  hall,  seeing  the  king  sud- 
denly reappear  in  the  midst  of  the  whole  National  Assem- 
bly, broke  into  jubilant  cries  of  delight.  The  shouts, 
"Long  live  the  king!  Long  live  the  nation!"  blended  in 
a  harmonious  concord  which  rang  far  and  wide.  Upon 
the  Place  d'Armes  were  standing  the  gardes  du  corps,  both 
the  Swiss  and  the  French,  with  their  arms  in  their  hands. 
But  they,  too,  were  infected  with  the  universal  gladness,  as 
they  saw  the  procession,  whose  like  had  never  been  seen 
before,  move  on. 

The  cries  which  to-day  solemnized  the  happy  reconcil- 
iation of  the  king  and  the  people  now  were  united  with  the 
discordant  clang  of  trumpets  and  the  rattle  of  drums  on 
all  sides. 

Upon  the  great  balcony  of  the  palace  at  Versailles  stood 
the  queen,  awaiting  the  return  of  the  king.  The  thou- 
sands of  voices  raised  in  behalf  of  Louis  XVI.  and  the 
nation  had  drawn  Marie  Antoinette  to  the  balcony,  after 
remaining  in  her  own  room  with  thoughts  full  of  evil  fore- 
bodings. She  held  the  dauphin  in  her  arms,  and  led  her 
little  daughter.  Her  eyes,  from  which  the  heavy  veils  of 
sadness  were  now  withdrawn,  cast  joyful  glances  over  the 
immense,  shouting  crowds  of  people  approaching  the  pal- 
ace, at  whose  head  she  joyfully  recognized  her  husband, 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SIXTEENTH.  167 

the  king,  wearing  an  expression  of  cheerfulness  which  for 
a  time  she  had  not  seen  on  his  face. 

When  the  king  caught  sight  of  his  wife,  he  hastened  to 
remove  his  hat  and  salute  her.  But  few  of  the  deputies 
followed  the  royal  example,  and  silently,  without  any  salu- 
tation, without  any  cries  of  acclamation,  they  looked  up  at 
the  queen.  Marie  Antoinette  turned  pale,  and  stepped 
back  with  her  children  into  the  hall. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  she  said,  with  a  gush  of  tears,  "  it  is  all 
over  with  my  hopes.  The  Queen  of  France  is  still  to  be 
the  poorest  and  most  unhappy  woman  in  France,  for  she 
is  not  loved,  she  is  despised." 

Two  soft  young  arms  were  laid  around  her  neck,  and  with 
a  face  full  of  sorrow,  and  with  tears  in  his  great  blue  eyes, 
the  dauphin  looked  up  to  the  disturbed  countenance  of  his 
mother. 

"Mamma  queen,"  he  whispered,  pressing  fondly  up  to 
her,  "  mamma  queen,  I  love  you  and  everybody  loves  you, 
and  my  dear  brother  in  heaven  prays  for  you." 

With  a  loud  cry  of  pain,  that  escaped  her  against  her 
will,  the  queen  pressed  her  son  to  her  heart  and  covered 
his  head  with  her  kisses. 

"Love  me,  my  son,  love  me,"  she  whispered,  choking, 
"  and  may  thy  brother  in  heaven  pray  for  me  that  I  may 
soon  be  released  from  the  pains  whch  I  suffer!" 

But  as  she  heard  now  the  voice  of  the  king  without,  tak- 
ing leave  of  his  retinue  with  friendly  words,  Marie  Antoi- 
nette hastily  dried  her  tears,  and  putting  down  the  dau- 
phin, whispered  to  him,  "  Do  not  tell  papa  that  I  have  been 
crying,"  and  in  her  wonted  lofty  bearing,  with  a  smile 
upon  her  trembling  lips,  she  went  to  meet  her  husband. 

As  it  grew  late  and  dark  in  the  evening,  several  baggage- 
wagons  heavily  laden  and  tightly  closed  moved  noiselessly 
and  hastily  from  the  inner  courts  of  the  palace,  and  took 
the  direction  toward  the  country.  In  these  carriages  were 
the  Count  d'Artois,  the  Duke  d'Angouleme,  and  the  Duke 
de  Berry,  the  Prince  de  Conde,  the  Duke  de  Bourbon,  and 
the  Duke  d'Enghein,  who  were  leaving  the  kingdom  in 
secret  flight. 

Louis  XVI.  had  tried  to  quiet  the  anxieties  of  his 
brother,  the  Count  d'Artois,  by  advising  him  to  leave 


168  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

France  for  some  time,  and  to  remain  in  a  foreign  land,  until 
the  times  should  be  more  quiet  and  peaceful.  The  other 
princes,  although  not  so  sorely  threatened  with  popular 
rage  as  the  Count  d'Artois,  whose  head  had  already  been 
demanded  at  Paris,  had,  with  the  exception  of  the  king's 
other  brother,  been  so  overcome  with  their  anxieties  as  to 
resolve  upon  flight.  They  were  followed  on  the  next  day 
by  the  new  ministers,  who  now,  yielding  to  the  demands  of 
the  National  Assembly,  had  handed  in  their  resignation  to 
the  king,  but  did  not  consider  it  safe  to  remain  within 
range  of  the  capital. 

But  another  offering,  and  one  more  painful  to  the 
queen,  had  to  be  made  to  the  hatred  of  the  people  and  the 
hostile  demands  of  the  National  Assembly.  Marie  Antoi- 
nette herself  felt  it,  and  had  the  courage  to  express  it. 
Her  friends  the  Polignacs  must  be  sent  away.  In  all  the 
libellous  pamphlets  which  had  been  directed  against  the 
queen,  and  which  Brienne  had  sedulously  given  to  her,  it 
was  one  of  the  main  charges  which  had  been  hurled  against 
her,  that  the  queen  had  given  to  her  friends  enormous 
sums  from  the  state's  treasury;  that  the  Duchess  Julia, 
as  governess  of  the  royal  children,  and  her  husband  the 
Duke  de  Polignac,  as  director  of  the  royal  mews,  received 
a  yearly  salary  of  two  million  francs;  and  that  the  whole 
Polignac  family  together  drew  nearly  six  million  francs 
yearly  from  the  national  treasury. 

Marie  Antoinette  knew  that  the  people  hated  the  Poli- 
gnacs on  this  account,  and  she  wanted  at  least  to  put  her 
friends  in  a  place  of  safety. 

At  the  same  hour  in  which  the  brothers  of  the  king  and 
the  princes  of  the  royal  family  left  Versailles,  the  Duke 
and  the  Duchess  de  Polignac  were  summoned  to  the  queen, 
and  Marie  Antoinette  had  told  them  with  trembling  voice 
that  they  too  must  fly,  that  they  must  make  their  escape 
that  very  night.  But  the  duchess,  as  well  as  the  duke, 
refused  almost  with  indignation  to  comply  with  the  request 
of  the  queen.  The  duchess,  who  before  had  been  character- 
ized by  so  calm  a  manner,  now  showed  for  the  first  time  a 
glow  of  affection  for  her  royal  friend,  and  unreckoning 
tenderness.  "Let  us  remain  with  you,  Marie,"  she  said, 
choking,  and  throwing  both  her  arms  around  the  neck  of 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SIXTEENTH.  169 

the  queen.  "  Do  not  drive  me  from  you.  I  will  not  go, 
I  will  share  your  perils  and  will  die  for  you,  if  it  must  be." 

But  Marie  Antoinette  found  now  in  her  great  love  the 
power  to  resist  these  requests — the  power  to  hold  back  the 
tears  which  started  from  her  heart  and  to  withdraw  herself 
from  the  arms  of  her  friend. 

"  It  must  be,"  she  said.  "  In  the  name  of  our  friendship 
I  conjure  you,  Julia,  take  your  departure  at  once,  for,  if 
you  are  not  willing  to,  I  shall  die  with  anxiety  about  you. 
There  is  still  time  for  you  and  yours  to  escape  the  rage  of 
my  enemies.  They  hate  you  not  for  your  own  sake,  and 
how  would  it  be  possible  to  hate  my  Julia?  It  is  for  my 
sake,  and  because  they  hate  me,  that  they  persecute  my 
dearest  friend.  Go,  Julia,  you  ought  not  to  be  the  victim 
of  your  friendship  for  me." 

"  No,  I  remain,"  said  the  duchess,  passionately.  "  Noth- 
ing shall  separate  me  from  my  queen." 

"Duke,"  implored  the  queen,  "speak  the  word,  say  that 
it  is  necessary  for  you  to  fly!" 

"Your  majesty,"  replied  the  duke,  gravely,  "I  can  only 
repeat  what  Julia  says :  nothing  shall  separate  us  from  our 
queen.  If  we  have  in  the  days  of  prosperity  enjoyed  the 
favor  of  being  permitted  to  be  near  your  majesty,  we  must 
claim  it  as  the  highest  favor  to  be  permitted  to  be  near  you 
in  the  days  of  your  misfortune!" 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  the  king  entered. 

"Sire,"  said  the  queen,  as  she  advanced  to  meet  him, 
"  help  me  to  persuade  these  noble  friends  that  they  ought 
to  leave  us!" 

"The  queen  is  right,"  said  Louis,  sadly,  "they  must  go 
at  once.  Our  misfortune  compels  us  to  part  with  all  who 
love  and  esteem  us.  I  have  just  said  farewell  to  my 
brother,  now  I  say  the  same  to  you ;  I  command  you  to  go. 
Pity  us,  but  do  not  lose  a  minute's  time.  Take  your  chil- 
dren and  your  servants  with  you.  Eeckon  at  all  times 
upon  me.  We  shall  meet  again  in  happier  days,  after  our 
dangers  are  past,  and  then  you  shall  both  resume  your  old 
places.  Farewell!  Once  more  I  command  you  to  go!"  * 

And  as  the  king  perceived  that  the  tears  were  starting 

*  The  king's  own  words.  This  intense  parting  scene  is  strictly  historical, 
according  to  the  concurrent  communications  of  Montjoie  in  his  "Histoire  de 
Marie  Antoinette. "  Campan,  Mem. ,  ii.  Weber,  Mem.,  i. 


170  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

into  his  eyes,  and  that  his  voice  was  trembling,  he  silently 
bowed  to  his  friends,  and  hastily  withdrew. 

"  You  have  heard  what  the  king  commands,"  said  Marie 
Antoinette,  eagerly,  "  and  you  will  not  venture  to  disobey 
him.  Hear  also  this:  I  too,  the  Queen  of  France,  com- 
mand you  to  take  your  departure  this  very  hour." 

The  duke  bowed  low  before  the  queen,  who  stood  with 
pale  cheeks,  but  erect,  and  with  a  noble  air. 

"  Your  majesty  has  commanded,  and  it  becomes  us  to 
obey.  We  shall  go." 

The  duchess  sank,  with  a  loud  cry  of  grief,  on  her  knee 
before  the  queen,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  royal  robe. 

Marie  Antoinette  did  not  disturb  her,  did  not  venture  to 
speak  to  her,  for  she  knew  that,  with  the  first  word  which 
she  should  utter,  the  pain  of  her  heart  would  find  expres- 
sion on  her  lips,  and  she  would  be  composed ;  she  would 
not  let  her  friend  see  how  severe  the  sacrifice  was  which 
her  love  compelled  her  to  make. 

"Let  me  remain  with  you,"  implored  the  duchess,  "do 
not  drive  me  from  you,  Marie,  my  Marie!" 

The  queen  turned  her  great  eyes  upward,  and  her  looks 
were  a  prayer  to  God  to  give  her  power  and  steadfastness. 
Twice  then  she  attempted  to  speak,  twice  her  voice  refused 
to  perform  its  duty,  and  she  remained  silent,  wrestling 
with  her  grief,  and  at  last  overcoming  it. 

"  Julia,"  she  said — and  with  every  word  her  voice  became 
firmer  and  stronger — "  Julia,  we  must  part.  I  should  be 
doubly  unhappy  to  draw  you  and  yours  into  my  misfor- 
tunes; it  will,  in  all  my  troubles,  be  a  consolation  to  me, 
that  I  have  been  able  to  save  you.  I  do  not  say,  as  the 
king  did,  that  we  shall  meet  again  in  happier  days,  and 
after  our  perils  are  past — for  I  do  not  believe  in  any  more 
happy  days — we  shall  not  be  able  to  survive  those  perils, 
but  shall  perish  in  them.  I  say,  farewell,  to  meet  not  in 
this,  but  in  a  better  world !  Not  a  word  more.  I  cannot 
bear  it !  Your  queen  commands  you  to  go  at  once !  Fare- 
well!" 

She  extended  her  hand  firmly  to  her,  but  she  could  not 
look  at  her  friend,  who  lay  at  her  feet  weeping  and  chok- 
ing; she  saluted  the  duke  with  a  mere  wave  of  the  hand, 
turned  quickly  away,  and  hastened  into  the  adjoining 


THE   FIFTH    OF   OCTOBER,   1789.  171 

room,  and  then  on  till  she  reached  her  own  toilet-room, 
where  Madame  de  Campan  was  awaiting  her. 

"Cam pan,"  she  cried,  in  tones  of  anguish,  "Campan,  it 
is  done!  I  have  lost  my  friend!  I  shall  never  see  her 
again.  Close  the  door,  draw  the  bolt,  that  she  cannot 
come  in,  I — I  shall  die!"  And  the  queen  uttered  a  loud 
cry,  and  sank  in  a  swoon. 

At  midnight  two  well-packed  carriages  drove  out  of  the 
inner  courts  of  the  palace.  They  were  the  Polignacs ;  they 
were  leaving  France,  to  take  refuge  in  Switzerland. 

In  the  first  carriage  was  the  Duchess  de  Polignac,  with 
her  husband  and  her  daughter.  She  held  two  letters  in 
her  hand.  Campan  had  given  her  both,  in  the  name  of 
the  queen,  as  she  was  stepping  into  the  carriage. 

One  was  directed  to  Minister  Necker,  who,  after  his  dis- 
missal, had  withdrawn  to  Basle.  Since  the  National  As- 
sembly, the  clubs,  the  whole  population  of  Paris,  desired 
Necker's  return,  and  declared  him  to  be  the  only  man  who 
could  restore  the  shattered  finances  of  the  country;  the 
queen  had  persuaded  her  husband  to  recall  the  minister, 
although  an  opponent  of  hers,  and  appoint  him  again  min- 
ister of  finance.  The  letter  of  the  queen,  which  the  Duch- 
ess Julia  was  commissioned  to  give  to  Necker,  contained 
his  recall,  announced  to  him  in  flattering  words. 

The  second  letter  was  a  parting  word  from  the  queen  to 
her  friend,  a  last  cry  from  her  heart.  "Farewell,"  it 
ran — "  farewell,  tenderly-loved  friend !  How  dreadful  this 
parting  word  is!  But  it  is  needful.  Farewell!  I  embrace 
thee  in  spirit!  Farewell!" 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE   FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,  1789. 

THE  morning  dawned — a  windy  October  morning,  sur- 
rounding the  sun  with  thick  clouds;  so  the  daylight  came 
late  to  Paris,  as  if  fearing  to  see  what  had  taken  place  on 
the  streets  and  squares.  The  national  guard,  summoned 
together  by  the  alarm-signal  of  drum-beats  and  the  clangor 
of  trumpets  and  horns,  collected  in  the  gray  morning  light, 
12 


172  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

for  a  fearful  rumor  had  been  spread  through  Paris  the 
evening  before,  and  one  has  whispered  to  another  that  to- 
morrow had  been  appointed  by  the  clubs  and  by  the 
agitators  for  a  second  act  in  the  revolution,  and  the  people 
are  too  quiet,  they  must  be  roused  to  neAV  deeds. 

"The  people  are  too  quiet,"  that  was  the  watchword  of 
the  4th  of  October,  in  all  the  clubs,  and  it  was  Marat  who 
had  carried  it. 

On  the  platform  of  the  Club  de  Cordeliers,  the  cry  was 
raised  loudly  and  hoarsely:  "  Paris  is  in  danger  of  folding 
its  hands  in  its  lap,  praying  and  going  to  sleep.  They 
must  wake  out  of  this  state  of  lethargy,  else  the  hateful, 
tyrannical  monarchy  will  revive,  and  draw  the  nightcap  so 
far  over  the  ears  of  the  sleeping  capital,  that  it  will  stick 
as  if  covered  with  pitch,  and  suffer  itself  to  relapse  into 
bondage.  We  must  awaken  Paris,  my  friends;  Paris  must 
not  sleep." 

And  on  the  night  of  the  4th  of  October,  Paris  had  not 
slept,  for  the  agitators  had  kept  it  awake.  The  watch-cry 
had  been:  "The  bakers  must  not  bake  to-night!  Paris 
must  to-morrow  morning  be  without  bread,  that  the  people 
may  open  their  eyes  again  and  awake.  The  bakers  must 
not  bake  to-night!" 

All  the  clubs  had  caught  up  their  watch -cry,  and  their 
emissaries  had  spread  it  through  the  whole  city,  that  all 
the  bakers  should  be  informed  that  whoever  should  "  open 
his  store  in  the  morning,  or  give  any  other  answer  than 
this :  '  There  is  no  more  meal  in  Paris ;  we  have  not  been 
able  to  bake!'  will  be  regarded  as  a  traitor  to  the  national 
cause,  and  as  such,  will  be  punished.  Be  on  your  guard!" 

The  bakers  had  been  intimidated  by  this  threat,  and 
had  not  baked.  When  Paris  awoke  on  the  morning  of  the 
oth  of  October,  it  was  without  bread.  People  lacked  their 
most  indispensable  article  of  food. 

At  the  outset,  the  women,  who  received  these  dreadful 
tidings  at  the  bake-shops,  returned  dumb  with  horror  to 
their  families,  to  announce  to  their  households  and  their 
hungry  children:  "  There  is  no  bread  to-day!  The  supply 
of  flour  is  exhausted !  We  must  starve !  There  is  no  more 
bread  to  be  had!" 

And   from   the   dark   abode   of   the  poor,  the   sad  cry 


THE    FIFTH    OF   OCTOBER,  1789.  173 

sounded  out  into  the  narrow  and  dirty  streets  and  all  the 
squares,  "  Paris  contains  no  bread!  Paris  must  starve!" 

The  women,  the  children  uttered  these  cries  in  wild 
tones  of  despair.  The  men  repeated  the  words  with 
clinched  fists  and  with  threatening  looks:  "Paris  contains 
no  more  bread!  Paris  must  starve!" 

"And  do  you  know  why  Paris  must  starve?"  croaked 
out  a  voice  into  the  ears  of  the  people  who  were  crowding 
each  other  in  wild  confusion  on  the  Place  de  Carrousel. 
"  Do  you  know  who  is  the  cause  of  all  this  misery  and 
want?" 

"  Tell  us,  if  you  know!"  cried  a  rough  man's  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,  tell  us!"  shouted  other  voices.  "  We  want  to 
know!" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  answered  the  first,  in  rasping  tones; 
and  now  upon  the  stones,  which  indicated  where  the  car- 
riage-road crossed  the  square,  a  little,  shrunken,  broad- 
shouldered  figure,  with  an  unnaturally  large  head,  and 
ugly,  crafty  face,  could  be  seen. 

"Marat!"  cried  some  man  in  the  crowd.  "Marat!" 
yelled  the  cobbler  Simon,  who  had  been  since  August  the 
friend  and  admirer  of  Marat,  and  was  to  be  seen  every- 
where at  his  side.  "  Listen,  friends,  listen !  Marat  is 
going  to  speak  to  us ;  he  will  tell  us  how  it  happens  that 
Paris  has  bread  no  more,  and  that  we  shall  all  have  to 
starve  together!  Marat  is  going  to  speak!" 

"Silence,  silence!"  scattered  men  commanded  here  and 
there.  "Silence!"  ejaculated  a  gigantic  woman,  with 
broad,  defiant  face,  around  which  her  black  hair  hung  in 
dishevelled  masses,  and  which  was  gathered  up  in  partly- 
secured  knots  under  her  white  cap.  With  her  broad  shoul- 
ders and  her  robust  arms  she  forced  her  way  through  the 
crowd,  directing  her  course  toward  the  place  where  Marat 
was  standing,  and  near  him  Simon  the  cobbler,  on  whose 
broad  shoulders,  as  upon  a  desk,  Marat  was  resting  one 
hand. 

"Silence!"  cried  the  giantess.  "  Marat,  the  people's 
friend,  is  going  to  speak !  Let  us  listen,  for  it  will  cer- 
tainly do  us  good.  Marat  is  clever  and  wise,  and  loves  the 
people !" 

Marat's  green,  blazing  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the 


174  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

gigantic  form  of  the  woman;  he  shrank  back  as  if  an  elec- 
trical spark  had  touched  him,  and  with  a  wonderful 
expression  of  mingled  triumph  and  joy. 

"Come  nearer,  goodwife!"  he  exclaimed;  "let  me  press 
your  hand,  and  bring  all  the  excellent,  industrious,  well- 
minded  women  of  Paris  to  take  Marat,  the  patriot,  by  the 
hand!" 

The  woman  strode  to  the  place  where  Marat  was  stand- 
ing and  reached  him  her  hand.  No  one  in  the  crowd 
noticed  that  this  hand  of  unwonted  delicacy  and  whiteness 
did  not  seem  to  comport  well  with  the  dress  of  a  vender  of 
vegetables  from  the  market ;  no  one  noticed  that  on  one 
of  the  tapering  fingers  a  jewel  of  no  ordinary  size  glistened. 

Marat  was  the  only  one  to  notice  it,  and  while  pressing 
the  offered  hand  of  the  woman  in  his  bony  fist,  he  stooped 
down  and  whispered  in  her  ear : 

"  Monseigneur,  take  this  jewelled  ring  off,  and  do  not 
press  forward  too  much,  you  might  be  identified!" 

"I  be  identified!"  answered  the  woman,  turning  pale. 
"I  do  not  understand  you,  Doctor  Marat!" 

"But  I  do,"  whispered  Marat,  still  more  softly,  for  he 
saw  that  Simon's  little  sparkling  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  woman  with  a  look  of  curiosity.  "  I  understand  the 
Duke  Philip  d'Orleans  very  well.  He  wants  to  rouse  up 
the  people,  but  he  is  unwilling  to  compromise  his  name  or 
his  title.  And  that  may  be  a  very  good  thing.  But  you 
are  not  to  disown  yourself  before  Marat,  for  Marat  is  your 
very  good  friend,  and  will  keep  your  secret  honorably." 

"  What  are  you  whispering  about?"  shouted  Simon. 
"Why  do  you  not  speak  to  the  people?  You  were  going 
to  tell  us  why  Paris  has  no  bread,  and  who  is  to  blame  that 
we  must  all  starve." 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  what  you  were  going  to  tell  us!"  was 
shouted  on  all  sides.  "  We  want  to  know  it." 

"Tell  us,  tell  us!"  cried  the  giantess.  "  Give  me  your 
hand  once  more,  that  I  may  press  it  in  the  name  of  all  the 
women  of  Paris!" 

Marat  with  an  assuring  smile  reached  his  great,  bony 
hand  to  the  woman,  who  held  it  in  both  of  her  own  for  a 
moment,  and  then  retreated  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 

But  in  Marat's  hand  now  blazed  the  jewelled  ring  which 


THE   FIFTH    OF   OCTOBER,  1789.  175 

had  a  moment  before  adorned  the  large,  soft  hand  of  the 
woman.  He,  perhaps,  did  not  know  it  himself;  he  paid 
no  attention  to  it,  but  turned  all  his  thoughts  to  the  peo- 
ple who  now  filled  the  immense  square,  and  hemmed  him 
in  with  thousands  upon  thousands  of  blazing  eyes. 

"You  want  to  know  why  you  have  no  bread?"  snarled 
he.  "You  ask  why  you  starve?  Well,  my  friends  and 
brothers,  the  answer  is  an  easy  one  to  give.  The  baker  of 
France  has  shut  up  his  storehouse  because  the  baker's  wife 
has  told  him  to  do  so,  because  she  hates  the  people  and 
wants  them  to  starve!  But  she  does  not  intend  to  starve, 
and  so  she  has  called  the  baker  and  the  little  apprentices 
to  Versailles,  where  are  her  storehouses,  guarded  by  her 
paid  soldiers.  What  does  it  concern  her  if  the  people  of 
Paris  are  miserably  perishing?  She  has  an  abundance  of 
bread,  for  the  baker  must  always  keep  his  store  open  for 
her,  and  her  son  eats  cake,  while  your  children  are  starv- 
ing !  You  must  always  keep  demanding  that  the  baker, 
the  baker's  wife,  and  the  whole  brood  come  to  Paris  and 
live  in  your  midst,  and  then  you  will  see  how  they  keep 
their  flour,  and  you  will  then  compel  them  to  give  you  of 
their  superfluous  supplies." 

"  Yes,  we  will  make  her  come!"  cried  Simon  the  cobbler, 
with  a  coarse  laugh.  "  Up,  brothers,  up !  We  must  com- 
pel the  baker  and  his  wife  to  open  the  flour-store  to  us!" 

"  Let  us  go  to  Versailles!"  roared  the  great  woman,  who 
had  posted  herself  among  a  group  of  fishwives.  "  Come, 
my  friends,  let  us  go  to  Versailles,  and  we  will  tell  the 
baker's  wife  that  our  children  have  no  bread,  while  she  is 
giving  her  apprentices  cakes.  We  will  demand  of  her  that 
she  give  our  children  bread,  and  if  she  refuses  it,  we  will 
compel  her  to  come  with  her  baker  and  her  whole  brood  to 
Paris  and  starve  with  us!  Come,  let  us  go  to  Versailles!" 

"Yes,  yes,  let  us  go  to  Versailles!"  was  the  hideous  cry 
which  echoed  across  the  square;  "the  baker's  wife  shall 
give  us  bread!" 

"  She  keeps  the  keys  to  the  stores!"  howled  Marat,  "she 
prevents  the  baker  opening  them." 

"She  shall  give  us  the  keys!"  yelled  the  great  woman. 
"  All  the  mothers  and  all  the  women  of  Paris  must  go  to 
Versailles  to  the  baker's  wife!" 


176  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

"All  mothers,  all  women  to  Versailles!"  resounded  in  a 
thousand-voiced  chorus  over  the  square,  and  then  through 
the  streets,  and  then  into  the  houses. 

And  all  the  mothers  and  wives  caught  up  these  thunder- 
ing cries,  which  came  to  them  like  unseen  voices  from  the 
air,  commissioning  them  to  engage  in  a  noble,  an  exalted 
mission,  calling  to  them  to  save  Paris  and  procure  bread 
for  their  children. 

"To  Versailles,  to  Versailles!  All  mothers  and  women 
to  Versailles!" 

Who  was  able  to  resist  obeying  this  command,  which  no 
one  had  given,  which  was  heard  by  no  single  ear,  yet  was 
intelligible  to  every  heart — who  could  resist  it? 

The  men  had  stormed  the  Bastile,  the  women  must 
storm  the  heart  of  the  baker's  wife  in  Versailles,  till  it 
yield  and  give  to  the  children  of  the  poor  the  bread  for 
which  they  hunger. 

"  Up,  to  Versailles!     All  wives  and  mothers!" 

The  cry  sweeps  like  a  hurricane  through  the  streets,  and 
everywhere  finds  an  echo  in  the  maddened,  panic-stricken, 
despairing,  raging  hearts  of  the  women  who  see  their  chil- 
dren hunger,  and  suffer  hunger  themselves. 

"  The  baker's  wife  feeds  her  apprentices  with  cakes,  and 
we  have  not  a  crumb  of  bread  to  give  to  our  poor  little 
ones!" 

In  whole  crowds  the  women  dashed  into  the  largest 
squares,  where  were  the  men  who  fomented  the  revolution, 
Marat,  Danton,  Santerre,  Chaumette,  and  all  the  rest,  the 
speakers  at  the  clubs;  there  they  are,  giving  their  counsels 
to  the  maddened  women,  and  spurring  them  on! 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  do  not  be  turned  aside !  Go  to  Ver- 
sailles, brave  women !  Save  your  children,  your  husbands, 
from  death  by  starvation!  Compel  the  baker's  wife  to 
give  bread  to  you  and  for  us  all !  And  if  she  conceals  it 
from  you,  storm  her  palace  with  violence;  there  will  be 
men  there  to  help  you.  Only  be  brave  and  undismayed, 
God  will  go  with  mothers  who  are  bringing  bread  to  their 
children,  and  your  husbands  will  protect  you!" 

They  were  brave  and  undismayed,  the  wives  and  mothers 
of  Paris.  In  broad  streams  they  rushed  on;  they  broke 
over  every  thing  which  was  in  their  way ;  they  drew  all  the 


THE    FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,   1789.  177 

women  into  their  seething  ranks.  "  To  Versailles !  To 
Versailles!" 

It  was  to  no  avail  that  De  Bailly,  the  mayor  of  Paris, 
encountered  the  women  on  the  street,  and  urged  them  with 
pressing  words  to  return  to  their  families  and  their  work, 
and  assured  them  that  the  bakers  had  already  opened  their 
shops,  and  had  been  ordered  to  bake  bread.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  general  of  the  National  Guard,  Lafayette,  had  a 
discussion  with  the  women,  and  tried  to  show  them  how 
vain  and  useless  was  their  action. 

Louder  and  louder  grew  the  commanding  cry,  "  To  Ver- 
sailles! We  will  bring  the  baker  and  his  wife  to  Paris! 
To  Versailles!" 

The  crowds  of  women  grew  more  and  more  dense,  and 
still  mightier  was  the  shout,  "  To  Versailles!" 

Bailly  went  with  pain  to  General  Lafayette.  "  We  must 
pacify  them,  or  you,  general,  must  prevent  them  by  force!" 

"It  is  impossible,"  replied  Lafayette.  "  How  could  we 
use  force  against  defenceless  women?  Not  one  of  my  sol- 
diers would  obey  my  commands,  for  these  women  are  the 
wives,  the  mothers,  the  sisters  of  my  soldiers!  They  have 
no  other  weapons  than  their  tongues  with  which  to  storm 
the  heart  of  the  queen !  How  could  we  conquer  them  with 
weapons  of  steel?  We  must  let  them  go!  But  we  must 
take  precautions  that  the  king  and  the  queen  do  not  fall 
into  danger." 

"  That  will  be  all  the  more  necessary,  general,  as  the 
women  will  certainly  be  accompanied  by  armed  crowds  of 
men,  and  excitement  and  confusion  will  accompany  them 
all  the  way  to  Versailles.  Make  haste,  general,  to  defend 
Versailles.  The  columns  of  women  are  already  in  motion, 
and,  as  I  have  said  to  you,  they  will  be  accompanied  by 
armed  men!" 

"  It  would  not  be  well  for  me  to  take  my  soldiers  to  Ver- 
sailles," said  Lafayette,  shaking  his  head.  "You  know, 
M.  de  Bailly,  to  what  follies  the  reactionaries  of  Versailles 
have  already  led  the  royal  family.  All  Paris  speaks  of 
nothing  else  than  of  the  holiday  which  the  king  and  queen 
have  given  to  the  royal  troops,  the  regiment  of  Flanders, 
which  they  have  summoned  to  Versailles.  The  king  and 
the  oueen,  with  the  dauphin,  were  present.  The  tri- 


178  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

colored  cockade  was  trodden  under  foot,  and  the  people 
were  arrayed  in  white  ribbons.  Eoyalist  songs  were  sung, 
the  National  Guard  was  bitterly  talked  of,  and  an  oath 
was  given  to  the  king  and  queen  that  commands  would 
only  be  received  of  them.  My  soldiers  are  exasperated,  and 
many  of  my  officers  have  desired  of  me  to-day  that  we 
should  repair  to  Versailles  and  attack  the  regiment  of 
Flanders  and  decimate  them.  It  is,  therefore,  perilous  to 
take  these  exasperated  National  Guards  to  Versailles." 

"  And  yet  something  must  be  done  for  the  protection  of 
the  king,"  said  Bailly ;  "  believe  me,  these  raging  troops  of 
women  are  more  dangerous  than  the  exasperated  National 
Guards.  Come,  General  Lafayette,  we  will  go  to  the  city 
hall,  and  summon  the  magistracy  and  the  leaders  of  the 
National  Guard,  to  take  counsel  of  them." 

An  hour  later  the  drums  beat  through  all  the  streets  of 
Paris,  for  in  the  city  hall  the  resolve  had  been  taken  that 
the  National  Guard  of  Paris,  under  the  lead  of  General 
Lafayette,  should  repair  to  Versailles  to  protect  the  royal 
family  against  the  attacks  of  the  people,  but  at  the  same 
time  to  protect  the  National  Assembly  against  the  attacks 
of  the  royalist  troops. 

But  long  before  the  troops  were  in  motion,  and  had 
really  begun  their  march  to  Versailles,  the  troops  of 
women  were  already  on  their  way.  Soldiers  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard  and  armed  men  from  the  people  accompanied 
the  women,  and  secured  among  them  a  certain  military 
discipline.  They  marched  in  ten  separate  columns,  every 
one  of  which  consisted  of  more  than  a  thousand  wojnen. 
Each  column  was  preceded  by  some  soldiers  of  the  National 
Guard,  M'ith  weapons  on  their  shoulders,  who,  of  their  own 
free  will,  had  undertaken  to  be  the  leaders.  On  both 
Bides  of  each  column  marched  the  armed  men  from  the 
people,  in  order  to  inspire  the  women  with  courage  when 
they  grew  tired,  but  at  the  same  time  to  compel  those  who 
were  weary  of  the  long  journey,  or  sick  of  the  whole 
undertaking,  and  who  wanted  to  return  to  Paris,  to  come 
back  into  the  ranks  and  complete  what  they  had  begun, 
and  carry  the  work  of  revolution  still  further.  "  On  to 
Versailles!" 

All  was  quiet  in  Versailles  that  day.     No  one  suspected 


THE   FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,  1789.  179 

the  horrors  which  it  was  to  bring  forth.  The  king  had 
gone  with  some  of  his  gentlemen  to  Meudon  to  hunt :  the 
queen  had  gone  to  Trfanon  alone — all  alone! 

No  one  of  her  friends  was  now  at  her  side,  she  had  lost 
them  all.  No  one  was  there  to  share  the  misery  of  the 
queen  of  all  who  had  shared  her  happiness.  The  Duchess 
de  Polignac,  the  princesses  of  the  royal  house,  the  cheery 
brother  of  the  king,  Count  d'Artois,  the  Count  de  Coigny, 
Lords  Besenval  and  Lauzun,  where  are  they  all  now,  the 
friends,  the  suppliants  of  former  days?  Far,  far  away  in 
distant  lands,  flown  from  the  misfortune  that,  with  its 
dark  wings  sinking,  was  hovering  lower  and  lower  over 
Versailles,  and  darkening  with  its  uncanny  shadows  this 
Trianon  which  had  once  been  so  cheerful  and  bright.  All 
now  is  desolate  and  still !  The  mill  rattles  no  more,  the 
open  window  is  swung  to  and  fro  by  the  wind,  and  the 
miller  no  more  looks  out  with  his  good-natured,  laughing 
face ;  the  miller  of  Trianon  is  no  longer  the  king,  and  the 
burdens  and  cares  of  his  realm  have  bowed  his  head.  The 
school-house,  too,  is  desolate,  and  the  learned  master  no 
longer  writes  his  satires  and  jokes  upon  the  great  black- 
board in  the  school-room.  He  now  writes  libels  and 
pamphlets,  but  they  are  now  directed  against  the  queen, 
against  the  former  mistress  of  Trianon.  And  there  is  the 
fish-pond,  along  whose  shores  the  sheep  used  to  pasture, 
where  the  courtly  company,  transformed  into  shepherds 
and  shepherdesses,  used  to  lie  on  the  grass,  singing  songs, 
arranging  tableaux,  and  listening  to  the  songs  which  the 
band  played  behind  the  thicket.  All  now  is  silent.  No 
joyous  tone  now  breaks  the  melancholy  stillness  which 
fills  the  shady  pathways  of  the  grove  where  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, the  mistress  of  Trianon,  now  walks  with  bended 
head  and  heart-broken  spirit;  only  the  recollection  of  the 
past  resounds  as  an  echo  in  her  inner  ear,  and  revives  the 
cheerful  strains  which  long  have  been  silent. 

At  the  fish-pond  all  is  still,  no  flocks  grazing  on  the 
shore,  no  picturesque  groups,  no  songs.  The  spinning- 
wheel  no  longer  whirls,  the  hand  of  the  queen  no  longer 
turns  the  spindle ;  she  has  learned  to  hold  the  sceptre  and 
the  pen,  and  to  weave  public  policy,  and  not  a  net  of  linen. 
The  trees  with  their  variegated  autumn  foliage  are  reflected 


180  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

in  the  dark  water  of  the  pond ;  some  weeping-willows  droop 
with  their  tapering  branches  down  to  the  water,  and  a  few 
swans  come  slowly  sailing  across  witlf  their  necks  raised  in 
their  majestic  fashion.  As  they  saw  the  figure  on  the 
shore,  they  expanded  their  wings  and  sailed  quicker  on,  to 
pick  up  the  crumbs  which  the  white  hands  of  the  queen 
used  to  throw  to  them. 

But  these  hands  have  to-day  no  gifts  for  the  solitary, 
forgotten  swans.  All  the  dear,  pleasant  customs  of  the 
past  are  forgotten,  they  have  all  ceased. 

Yet  the  swans  have  not  forgotten  her;  they  sail  un- 
quietly  hither  and  thither  along  the  shore  of  the  pond, 
they  toss  up  their  slender  necks,  and  then  plunge  their 
red  beaks  down  into  the  dark  water  seeking  for  the  grate- 
ful bits  which  were  not  there.  But  when  they  saw  that 
they  were  disappointed,  they  poured  forth  their  peculiarly 
mournful  song  and  slowly  sailed  away  down  the  lakelet  into 
the  obscurity  of  the  distance,  letting  their  complaining 
notes  be  heard  from  time  to  time. 

"  They  are  singing  the  swan's  song  of  my  happiness," 
whispered  the  queen,  looking  with  tearful  eyes  at  the  beau- 
tiful creatures.  "  They  too  turn  away  from  me,  and  now 
I  am  alone,  all  alone." 

She  had  spoken  this  loudly,  and  her  quivering  voice 
wakened  the  echo  which  had  been  artistically  contrived 
there,  to  repeat  cheery  words  and  merry  laughter. 

"Alone!"  sounded  back  from  the  walls  of  the  Marl- 
borough  Tower  at  the  end  of  the  fish-pond.  "Alone!" 
whispered  the  water  stirred  with  the  swans.  "Alone!" 
was  the  rustling  cry  of  the  bushes.  "Alone!"  was  heard 
in  the  heart  of  the  queen,  and  she  sank  down  upon  the 
grass,  covered  her  face  wih  her  hands,  and  wept  aloud. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  cry  in  the  distance,  "  The  queen, 
Avhere  is  the  queen?" 

Marie  Antoinette  sprang  up  and  dried  her  eyes.  No 
one  should  see  that  she  had  wept.  Tears  belong  only  to 
solitude,  but  she  has  no  longer  even  solitude. 

The  voice  comes  nearer  and  nearer,  and  Marie  Antoi- 
nette follows  the  sound.  She  knows  that  she  is  going  to 
meet  a  new  misfortune.  People  have  not  come  to  Trianon 
to  bring  her  tidings  of  joy;  they  have  corne  to  tell  her  that 


THE    FIFTH    OF    OCTOBER,   1789.  181 

destruction  awaits  her  in  Versailles,  and  the  queen  is  to 
give  audience  to  it. 

A  man  came  with  hurried  step  from  the  thicket  down 
the  winding  footpath.  Marie  Antoinette  looked  at  him 
with  eager,  sharp  eye.  Who  is  he,  this  herald  of  misfor- 
tune? No  one  of  the  court  servants,  no  one  of  the  gentry. 
He  wears  the  simple  garments  of  a  citizen,  a  man  of  the 
people,  of  that  Third  Estate  which  has  prepared  for  the 
poor  queen  so  much  trouble  and  sorrow. 

He  had  perhaps  read  her  question  in  her  face,  for,  as  he 
now  sank  breathless  at  her  feet,  his  lips  murmured:  "  For- 
give me,  your  majesty,  forgive  me  that  I  disturb  you.  I 
am  Toulan,  your  most  devoted  servant,  and  it  is  Madame 
de  Campan  who  sends  me." 

"Toulan,  yes,  I  recognize  you  now,"  said  the  queen, 
hastily.  "  It  was  you,  was  it  not,  who  brought  me  the 
sad  news  of  the  acquittal  of  Rohan?" 

"  It  appears,  your  majesty,  that  a  cruel  misfortune  has 
always  chosen  me  to  be  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings  to  my  ex- 
alted queen.  And  to-day  I  come  only  with  such." 

"What  is  it?"  cried  the  queen,  eagerly.  "Has  any 
thing  happened  to  my  husband?  Are  my  children  threat- 
ened? Speak  quickly,  say  no  or  yes.  Let  me  know  the 
whole  truth  at  once.  Is  the  king  dead?  Are  my  children 
in  danger?" 

"No,  your  majesty." 

"  No,"  cried  the  queen,  breathing  a  breath  of  relief.  "  I 
thank  you,  sir.  You  see  that  you  accused  Fate  falsely,  for 
you  have  brought  me1  good  tidings.  And  yet  again  I  thank 
you,  for,  I  remember,  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for.  It 
was  you  who  raised  your  voice  in  the  National  Assembly, 
and  voted  for  the  inviolability  of  the  queen.  It  was  not 
your  fault,  and  believe  me  not  mine  either,  that  your  voice 
was  alone,  that  no  one  joined  you.  The  king  has  been 
declared  inviolable,  but  not  the  queen,  and  now  I  am  to  be 
attacked,  am  I  not?  Tell  me  what  is  it?  Why  does  my 
faithful  Campan  send  you  to  me?" 

"  Your  majesty,  to  conjure  you  to  come  to  Versailles." 

"  What  has  happened  there?" 

"  Nothing  as  yet,  your  majesty,  but — I  was  early  this 
morning  in  Paris,  and  what  I  saw  there  determined  me  to 


182  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

come  hither  at  once,  to  bring  the  news  and  warn  your 
majesty." 

"What  is  it?     Why  do  you  hesitate?     Speak  out  freely." 

"  Your  majesty,  all  Paris  is  in  motion,  all  Paris  is 
marching  upon  Versailles!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette, 
passionately.  "What  does  Paris  want?  Does  it  mean  to 
threaten  the  National  Assembly?  Explain  yourself,  for  you 
see  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Your  majesty,  the  people  of  Paris  hunger.  The  bakers 
have  made  no  bread,  for  they  assert  that  there  is  no  more 
meal.  The  enemies  of  the  realm  have  taken  advantage  of 
the  excitement  to  stir  up  the  masses  and  even  the  women. 
The  people  are  hungry ;  the  people  are  coming  to  Versailles 
to  ask  the  king  for  bread.  Ten  thousand  women  are  on  the 
road  to  Versailles,  accompanied  by  armed  bodies  of  men." 

"  Let  us  hasten,  sir,  I  must  go  to  my  children,"  said  the 
queen,  and  with  quick  steps  she  went  forward.  Not  a 
glance  back,  not  a  word  of  farewell  to  the  loved  plantation 
of  Trianon,  and  yet  it  is  the  last  time  that  Marie  Antoi- 
nette is  to  look  upon  it.  She  will  never  return  hither,  she 
turns  her  back  forever  upon  Trianon. 

With  flying  steps  she  hurries  on  ;  Toulan  does  not  ven- 
ture to  address  her,  and  she  has  perhaps  entirely  forgotten 
his  presence.  She  does  not  know  that  a  faithful  one  is 
near  her;  she  only  knows  that  her  children  are  in  Ver- 
sailles, and  that  she  must  go  to  them  to  protect  them,  and 
to  the  king  too,  to  die  with  him,  if  it  must  be. 

When  they  were  not  far  from  the  great  mall  of  the  park 
at  Versailles,  the  Count  de  St.  Priest  came  running,  and 
his  frightened  looks  and  pale  face  confirmed  the  news  that 
Mr.  Toulan  had  brought. 

"Your  majesty,"  cried  the  count,  breathless,  "I  took  the 
liberty  of  looking  for  your  majesty  at  Trianon.  Bad  news 
has  arrived." 

"I  know  it,"  answered  the  queen,  calmly.  "Ten  thou- 
sand women  are  marching  upon  Versailles,  Mr.  Toulan  has 
informed  me,  and  you  see  I  am  coming  to  receive  the 
womeo." 

All  at  once  she  stood  still  and  turned  to  Toulan,  who  was 
walking  behind  her  like  the  faithful  servant  of  his  mistress. 


THE   FIFTH    OF   OCTOBER,  1789.  183 

"Sir,"  said  she,  "I  thank  you,  and  I  know  that  I  may 
reckon  upon  you.  I  am  sure  that  to-day  as  always  you 
have  thought  upon  our  welfare,  and  that  you  will  remain 
mindful  of  the  oath  of  fidelity  which  you  once  gave  me. 
Farewell !  Do  you  go  to  the  National  Assembly.  I  will 
go  to  the  palace,  and  may  we  each  do  our  duty."  She 
saluted  Toulan  with  a  gentle  inclination  of  her  head  and 
with  beaming  looks  of  gratitude  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and 
then  hurried  on  up  the  grand  mall  to  the  palace. 

In  Versailles  all  was  confusion  and  consternation.  Every 
one  had  lost  his  senses.  Every  one  asked,  and  no  one  an- 
swered, for  the  only  one  who  could  answer,  the  king,  was 
not  there.  He  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  hunt  in 
Meudon. 

But  the  queen  was  there,  and  with  a  grand  calmness  and 
matchless  grasp  of  mind  she  undertook  the  duties  of  the 
king.  First,  she  sent  the  chief  equerry,  the  Marquis  de 
Cubieres,  to  meet  the  king  and  cause  him  to  hasten  home 
at  once.  She  intrusted  Count  St.  Priest,  minister  of  the 
interior,  with  a  division  of  the  guards  in  the  inner  court 
of  the  palace.  She  inspired  the  timid  women  with  hope. 
She  smiled  at  her  children,  who,  timid  and  anxious  at  the 
confusion  which  surrounded  them,  fled  to  the  queen  for 
refuge,  and  clung  to  her. 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  reports  that  came  mean- 
while to  the  palace.  They  were  the  storm-birds,  so  to 
speak,  that  precede  the  tempest.  They  announced  the 
near  approach  of  the  people  of  Paris,  of  the  women,  who 
were  no  longer  unarmed,  and  who  had  been  joined  by 
thousands  of  the  National  Guard,  who,  in  order  to  give 
the  train  of  women  a  more  imposing  appearance,  had 
brought  two  cannon  with  them,  and  who,  armed  with 
knives  and  guns,  pikes  and  axes,  and  singing  wild  war- 
songs,  were  marching  on  as  the  escort  of  the  women. 

The  queen  heard  all  without  alarm,  without  fear.  She 
commanded  the  women,  who  stood  around  her  weeping 
and  wringing  their  hands,  to  withdraw  to  their  own  apart- 
ments, and  protect  the  dauphin  and  the  princess,  to  lock 
the  doors  behind  them  and  to  admit  no  one — no  one,  ex- 
cepting herself. 

She   took  leave  of  the  children  with  a  kiss,  and  bade 


184  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

them  be  fearless  and  untroubled.  She  did  not  look  at  them 
as  the  women  took  them  away.  She  breathed  firmly  as  the 
doors  closed  behind  them. 

"Now  I  have  courage  to  bear  every  thing,"  she  said  to 
St.  Priest.  "  My  children  are  in  safety !  Would  only  that 
the  king  were  here!" 

At  the  same  instant  the  door  opened  and  the  king  en- 
tered. Marie  Antoinette  hastened  to  meet  him,  threw  her- 
self with  a  cry  of  joy  into  his  arms,  and  rested  her  head, 
which  had  before  been  erect  with  courage,  heavily  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  sire,  my  dear  sire!  thank  God  that  you  are  here. 
Now  I  fear  nothing  more!  You  will  not  suffer  us  to  per- 
ish in  misery!  You  will  breathe  courage  into  these  de- 
spairing ones,  and  tell  the  inexperienced  what  they  have  to 
do.  Sice,  Paris  is  marching  against  us,  but  with  us  there 
are  God  and  France.  You  will  defend  the  honor  of 
France  and  your  crown  against  the  rebels?" 

The  king  answered  confusedly,  and  as  if  in  a  yielding 
frame  of  mind.  "  We  must  first  hear  what  the  people 
want,"  he  said;  "we  must  not  approach  them  threaten- 
ingly, we  must  first  discuss  matters  with  them." 

"Sire,"  answered  the  queen,  in  amazement,  "to  discuss 
with  the  rebels  now  is  to  imply  that  they  are  in  the  right, 
and  you  will  not,  you  cannot  do  that!" 

"  I  will  consult  with  my  advisers,"  said  the  king,  point- 
ing at  the  ministers,  who,  summoned  by  St.  Priest,  were 
then  entering  the  room. 

But  what  a  consultation  was  that!  Every  one  made 
propositions,  and  yet  no  one  knew  what  to  do.  No  one 
would  take  the  responsibility  of  the  matter  upon  himself, 
and  yet  every  one  felt  that  the  danger  increased  every  min- 
ute. But  what  to  do?  That  was  the  question  which  no 
one  was  able  to  answer,  and  before  which  the  king  was 
mute.  Not  so  the  queen,  however. 

"Sire!"  cried  she,  with  glowing  cheeks,  "sire,  you  have 
to  save  the  realm,  and  to  defend  it  from  revolution.  The 
contest  is  here,  and  we  cannot  withdraw  from  it.  Call 
your  guards,  put  yourself  at  their  head,  and  allow  me  to 
remain  at  your  side.  We  ought  not  to  yield  to  revolution, 
and  if  we  cannot  control  it,  we  should  suffer  it  to  enter 


THE    FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,  1789.  185 

the  palace  of  the  kings  of  France  only  over  our  dead  bodies. 
Sire,  we  must  either  live  as  kings,  or  know  how  to  die  as 
kings!" 

But  Louis  replied  to  this  burst  of  noble  valor  in  a  brave 
woman's  soul,  only  with  holding  back  and  timidity.  Plans 
were  made  and  cast  aside.  They  went  on  deliberating  till 
the  wild  yells  of  the  people  were  heard  even  within  the 
palace. 

The  queen,  pale  and  yet  calm,  had  withdrawn  to  the  ad- 
joining apartment.  There  she  leaned  against  the  door  and 
listened  to  the  words  of  the  ministers,  and  to  the  new  re- 
ports which  were  all  the  time  coming  in  from  the  streets. 

The  crowd  had  reached  Versailles,  and  was  streaming 
through  the  streets  of  the  city  in  the  direction  of  the  pal- 
ace. The  National  Guard  of  Versailles  had  fraternized 
with  the  Parisians.  Some  scattered  soldiers  of  the  royal 
guard  had  been  threatened  and  insulted,  and  even  dragged 
from  their  horses! 

The  queen  heard  all,  and  heard  besides  the  consultation 
of  the  king  and  his  ministers — still  coming  to  no  decisive 
results,  doubting  and  hesitating,  while  the  fearful  crisis 
was  advancing  from  the  street. 

Already  musket-shots  were  heard  on  the  great  square  in 
front  of  the  palace,  wild  cries,  and  loud,  harsh  voices. 
Marie  Antoinette  left  her  place  at  the  door  and  hurried  to 
the  window,  where  a  view  could  be  had  of  the  whole  square. 

She  saw  the  dark  dust-cloud  which  hung  over  the  road 
to  Paris;  she  saw  the  unridden  horses,  running  in  advance 
of  the  crowd,  their  riders,  members  of  the  royal  guard, 
having  been  killed;  she  heard  the  raging  discords,  which 
surged  up  to  the  palace  like  a  wave  driven  by  the  wind ; 
she  saw  this  black,  dreadful  wave  sweep  along  the  Paris 
road,  roaring  as  it  went. 

What  a  fearful  mass !  Howling,  shrieking  women,  with 
loosened  hair,  and  with  menacing  gestures,  extended  their 
naked  arms  toward  the  palace  defiantly,  their  eyes  flaming, 
their  mouths  overflowing  with  curses.  Wild  men's  fig- 
ures, with  torn  blouses,  the  sleeves  rolled  up  over  dusty  and 
dirty  arms,  and  bearing  pikes,  knives,  and  guns,  here  and 
there  members  of  the  National  Guard  marching  with  them 
arm  in  arm,  pressed  on  toward  the  palace.  Sometimes 


186  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

shrieks  and  yells,  sometimes  coarse  peals  of  laughter,  or 
threatening  cries,  issued  from  the  confused  crowd. 

Nearer  and  nearer  surged  the  dreadful  wave  of  destruc- 
tion to  the  royal  palace.  Now  it  has  reached  it.  Mad- 
dened fists  pounded  upon  the  iron  gates  before  the  inner 
court,  and  threatening  voices  demanded  entrance;  hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  of  women  shrieked  with  wild  gestures: 
"  We  want  to  come  in !  We  want  to  speak  with  the  baker ! 
We  will  eat  the  queen's  guts  if  we  cannot  get  any  thing 
else  to  eat!" 

And  thousands  upon  thousands  of  women's  voices  re- 
peated— "  Yes,  we  will  eat  the  queen's  guts,  if  we  get  noth- 
ing else  to  eat!" 

Marie  Antoinette  withdrew  from  the  window ;  her  bear- 
ing was  grave  and  defiant,  a  laugh  of  scorn  played  over  her 
proudly-drawn-up  upper-lip,  her  head  was  erect,  her  step 
decisive,  dignified. 

She  went  again  to  the  king  and  his  ministers.  "  Sire," 
said  she,  "  the  people  are  here.  It  is  now  too  late  to  sup- 
plicate them,  as  you  wanted  to  do.  Nothing  remains  for 
you  except  to  defend  yourself,  and  to  save  the  crown  for 
your  son  the  dauphin,  even  if  it  falls  from  your  own  head." 

"It  remains  for  us,"  answered  the  king,  gravely,  "to 
bring  the  people  back  to  a  sense  of  duty.  They  are  de- 
ceived about  us.  They  are  excited.  We  will  try  to  con- 
ciliate them,  and  to  show  them  our  fatherly  interest  in 
them." 

The  queen  stared  in  amazement  at  the  pleasant,  smiling 
face  of  the  king ;  then,  with  a  loud  cry  of  pain,  which  es- 
caped from  her  breast  like  the  last  gasp  of  a  dying  man, 
she  turned  around,  and  went  up  to  the  Prince  de  Luxem- 
burg, the  captain  of  the  guard,  who  just  then  entered  the 
hall. 

"  Do  you  come  to  tell  us  that  the  people  have  taken  the 
palace?"  cried  the  queen,  with  an  angry  burst  from  her 
very  soul. 

"Madame,"  answered  the  prince,  "had  that  been  the 
case,  I  should  not  have  been  here  alive.  Only  over  my 
body  will  the  rabble  enter  the  palace." 

"Ah,"  muttered  Marie  Antoinette  to  herself,  "there  are 
men  in  Versailles  yet,  there  are  brave  men  yet  to  defend  us !" 


THE   FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,   1789.  187 

"What  news  do  you  bring,  captain?"  asked  the  king, 
stepping  up. 

"  Sire,  I  am  come  to  receive  your  commands,"  answered 
the  prince,  bowing  respectfully.  "  This  mob  of  shameless 
shrews  is  growing  more  maddened,  more  shameless  every 
moment.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  arms  are  trying  the 
gates,  and  guns  are  fired  with  steady  aim  at  the  guards.  I 
beg  your  majesty  to  empower  me  to  repel  this  attack  of 
mad  women!" 

"What  an  idea,  captain!"  cried  Louis,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  Order  to  attack  a  company  of  women !  You 
are  joking,  prince!"* 

And  the  king  turned  to  Count  de  la  Marck,  who  was 
entering  the  room.  "  You  come  with  new  news.  What  is 
it,  count?" 

"  Sire,  the  women  are  most  desirous  of  speaking  with 
your  majesty,  and  presenting  their  grievances." 

"I  will  hear  them,"  cried  the  king,  eagerly.  "Tell  the 
women  to  choose  six  of  their  number  and  bring  them  into 
my  cabinet.  I  will  go  there  myself ." 

"Sire,  you  are  going  to  give  audience  to  revolution," 
cried  Marie  Antoinette,  seizing  the  arm  of  the  king,  who 
was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  room.  "  I  conjure  you,  my 
husband,  do  not  be  overpowered  by  your  magnanimous 
heart!  Let  not  the  majesty  of  the  realm  be  defiled  by  the 
raging  hands  of  these  furies !  Kemain  here.  Oh,  sire,  if 
my  prayers,  my  wishes  have  any  power  with  you,  remain 
here !  Send  a  minister  to  treat  with  these  women  in  your 
name.  But  do  not  confront  their  impudence  with  the 
dignity  of  the  crown.  Sire,  to  give  them  audience  is  to 
give  audience  to  revolution ;  and  from  the  hour  when  it 
takes  place,  revolution  has  gained  the  victory  over  the 
kingly  authority!  Do  not  go,  oh  do  not  go!" 

"I  have  given  my  word,"  answered  Louis,  gently.  "I 
have  sent  word  to  the  women  that  I  would  receive  them, 
and  they  shall  not  say  that  the  first  time  they  set  foot  in 
the  palace  of  their  king,  they  were  deceived  by  him.  And 
see,  there  comes  the  count  to  take  me!" 

And  the  king  followed  with  hasty  step  Count  de  la 
Marck,  who  just  then  appeared  at  the  door. 

*  The  king's  own  words.— See  Weber,  "M6moires,"  vol.  i.,  p.  433. 
13 


188  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Six  women  of  wild  demeanor,  with  dusty,  dirty  clothes, 
their  hair  streaming  out  from  their  round  white  caps,  were 
assembled  in  the  cabinet  of  the  king,  and  stared  at  him 
with  defiant  eyes  as  he  entered.  But  his  gentle  demeanor 
and  pleasant  voice  appeared  to  surprise  them;  and  Louise 
Chably,  the  speaker,  who  had  selected  the  women,  found 
only  timid,  modest  words,  with  which  to  paint  to  the  king 
the  misfortune,  the  need,  and  the  pitiable  condition  of  the 
people,  and  with  which  to  entreat  his  pity  and  assistance. 

"Ah,  my  children,"  answered  the  king  with  a  sigh, 
"  only  believe  me,  it  is  not  my  fault  that  you  are  miserable, 
and  I  am  still  more  unhappy  than  you.  I  will  give  direc- 
tions to  Corbeil  and  D'Estampes,  the  controllers  of  the 
grain-stores,  to  give  out  all  that  they  can  spare.  If  my 
commands  had  always  been  obeyed,  it  would  be  better  with 
us  all !  If  I  could  do  every  thing,  could  see  to  it  that  my 
commands  were  everywhere  carried  into  effect,  you  would 
not  be  unhappy;  and  you  must  confess,  at  least,  that  your 
king  loves  you  as  a  father  his  children,  and  that  nothing 
lies  so  closely  at  his  heart  as  your  welfare.  Go,  my  chil- 
dren, and  tell  your  friends  to  prove  worthy  of  the  love  of 
their  king,  and  to  return  peaceably  to  Paris."  * 

"  Long  live  the  king!  Long  live  our  father!"  cried  the 
touched  and  pacified  women,  as  trembling  and  with  tears 
in  their  eyes,  they  left  the  royal  cabinet,  in  order  to  go  to 
the  women  below,  and  announce  to  them  what  the  king 
had  said. 

But  the  royal  words  found  no  response  among  the  ex- 
cited masses. 

"We  are  hungry,  we  want  bread,"  shouted  the  women. 
"  We  are  not  going  to  live  on  words  any  more.  The  king 
shall  give  us  bread,  and  then  we  shall  see  it  proved  that  he 
loves  us  like  a  father;  then  we  will  go  back  to  Paris.  If 
the  baker  believes  that  he  can  satisfy  us  with  words  and 
fine  speeches,  he  is  mistaken." 

"If  he  has  no  bread,  he  shall  give  us  his  wife  to  eat!" 
roared  a  man  with  a  pike  in  his  hand  and  a  red  cap  on  his 
head.  "  The  baker's  wife  has  eaten  up  all  our  bread,  and 
it  is  no  more  than  fair  that  we  should  eat  her  up  now." 

*  The  king's  own  words.— S««  A.  de  Beauchesne.  "Louis  XVI.,  sa  Vie,  son 
Agonie,"etc. ,  vol.  i.,  p.  43. 


THE    FIFTH    OF    OCTOBER,   1789.  189 

"Give  us  the  heart  of  the  queen,"  was  now  the  cry, 
"give  us  the  heart  of  the  queen!" 

Marie  Antoinette  heard  the  words,  but  she  appeared  not 
to  be  alarmed.  With  dignity  and  composure,  she  cast  a 
look  at  the  ministers  and  gentlemen,  who,  pale  and  speech- 
less, had  gathered  around  the  royal  couple. 

"  I  know  that  this  crowd  has  come  from  Paris  to  de- 
mand my  head !  I  learned  of  my  mother  not  to  fear  death, 
and  I  shall  meet  it  with  courage  and  steadfastness. "  * 

And  firmly  and  fearlessly  Marie  Antoinette  remained  all 
this  dreadful  evening,  which  was  now  beginning  to  over- 
shadow Versailles.  Outside  of  the  palace  raged  the  up- 
roar; revolutionary  songs  were  sung;  veiled  forms,  the 
leaders  of  the  revolution,  stole  around,  and  fired  the  peo- 
ple with  new  rage  against  the  baker  and  the  baker's  wife. 
Torches  were  lighted  to  see  by,  and  the  blood-red  glare 
shone  into  the  faces  there,  and  tended  to  exasperate  them 
still  more.  What  dances  were  executed  by  the  women, 
with  torches  in  their  hands!  and  the  men  roared  in  ac- 
companiment, ridiculing  the  king  and  threatening  the 
queen  with  death. 

At  times  the  torches  threw  their  flickering  glare  into 
the  windows  of  the  palace,  where  were  the  ministers  and 
servants  of  the  king,  in  silent  horror.  Among  all  those 
counsellors  of  the  king,  there  was  at  this  time  but  one 
Man,  Marie  Antoinette !  She  alone  preserved  her  stead- 
fastness and  discretion ;  she  spoke  to  every  one  friendly, 
inspiriting  words.  She  roused  up  the  timid ;  at  times  she 
even  attempted  to  bring  the  king  to  some  decisive  action, 
and  yet  she  did  not  complain  when  she  found  herself  un- 
able to  do  so. 

Once  her  face  lighted  up  in  hope  and  joy.  That  was  when 
a  company  of  deputies,  headed  by  Toulan,  entered  the  hall, 
to  offer  their  services  to  the  royal  couple,  and  to  ask  per- 
mission to  be  allowed  to  remain  around  the  king  and  queen. 

Bat  scarcely  had  this  request  been  granted,  when  both 
the  secretaries  of  the  president  of  the  National  Assembly 
entered,  warning  the  members,  in  the  name  of  the  presi- 
dent, to  return  at  once  to  the  hall  and  to  take  part  in  the 
night  session  which  was  to  be  held. 

*  The  words  of  the  queen.— See  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  194. 


190  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"They  call  our  last  friends  away  from  us,"  murmured 
the  queen,  "for  they  want  us  to  be  entirely  defenceless!" 

All  at  once  the  cries  on  the  square  below  were  more 
violent  and  loud ;  musket-shots  were  heard;  at  the  inter- 
vals between  rose  the  thousand-voiced  clamor,  and  at  one 
time  the  thunder  of  a  cannon.  There  was  a  rush  of  horses, 
and  clash  of  arms,  more  musket-shots,  and  then  the  cry  of 
the  wounded. 

The  king  had  withdrawn  to  hold  a  last  consultation  with 
his  ministers  and  a  few  faithful  friends.  At  this  fearful 
noise,  this  sound  of  weapons,  this  shout  of  victory,  his  first 
thought  was  of  the  queen.  He  rose  quickly  and  entered 
the  hall. 

No  one  was  there;  the  red  glare  of  the  torches  was 
thrown  from  below  into  the  deserted  room,  and  showed 
upon  the  wall  wondrous  shadows  of  contorted  human  fig- 
ures, with  clinched  fists  and  with  raised  and  threatening 
arms. 

The  king  walked  hastily  through  the  fearfully  illumi- 
nated hall,  called  for  the  queen  with  a  loud  voice,  burst  into 
the  cabinet,  then  into  her  sleeping-room,  but  no  Marie 
Antoinette  was  to  be  found — no  one  gave  reply  to  the  anx- 
ious call  of  the  king. 

More  dreadful  grew  the  wild  shrieks  and  howls,  the 
curses  and  maledictions  which  came  in  from  without. 

The  king  sprang  up  the  little  staircase  which  led  to  the 
rooms  of  the  children,  and  dashed  through  the  antecham- 
ber, where  the  door  was  open  that  led  to  the  dauphin's 
sleeping-room. 

And  here  Louis  stood  still,  and  looked  with  a  breath  of 
relief  at  the  group  which  met  his  tearful  eyes.  The  dau- 
phin was  lying  in  his  bed  fast  asleep,  with  a  smile  on  his 
face.  Marie  Antoinette  stood  erect  before  the  bed  in  an 
attitude  of  proud  composure. 

"Marie,"  said  the  king,  deeply  moved — "Marie,  I  was 
looking  for  you." 

The  queen  slowly  turned  her  head  toward  him  and 
pointed  at  the  sleeping  prince. 

"  Sire,"  answered  she  calmly,  "  I  was  at  my  post."  * 

*  This  conversation,  as  well  as  this  whole  scene,  is  historical. —See  Beau- 
chesne's  " Louis  XVII. ,"  vol.  i. 


THE   FIFTH   OF   OCTOBER,   1789.  191 

Louis,  overcome  by  the  sublimity  of  a  mother's  love, 
hastened  to  his  wife  and  locked  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Remain  with  me,  Marie,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  leave  me. 
Breathe  your  courage  and  your  decision  into  me." 

The  queen  sighed  and  sadly  shook  her  head.  She  had 
not  a  word  of  reproach ;  she  did  not  say  that  she  no  longer 
believed  in  the  courage  and  decision  of  the  king,  but  she 
had  no  longer  any  hope. 

But  the  doors  of  the  room  now  opened.  Through  one 
came  the  maids  of  the  queen  and  the  governess  of  the 
dauphin ;  through  the  other,  some  gentlemen  of  the  court, 
to  call  the  king  back  into  the  audience-hall. 

After  the  first  panic,  every  one  had  come  back  to  con- 
sciousness again,  and  all  vied  in  devoting  themselves  to  the 
king  and  the  queen.  The  gentlemen  brought  word  that 
something  new  had  occurred,  and  that  this  was  the  cause 
of  the  dreadful  tumult  below  upon  the  square.  The 
National  Guard  of  Paris  had  arrived;  they  had  fraternized 
with  the  National  Guard  of  Versailles,  and  with  the  peo- 
ple; they  had  been  received  by  the  women  with  shouts  of 
applause,  and  by  the  men  with  a  volley  of  musket-shots  in 
salutation.  General  Lafayette  had  entered  the  palace  to 
offer  his  services  to  the  king,  and  he  now  asked  for  an 
audience. 

"Come,  madame,"  said  Louis  quickly,  cheered  up,  "let 
us  receive  the  general.  You  see  that  things  are  not  so  bad 
with  us  as  you  think.  We  have  faithful  servants  yet  to 
hasten  to  our  assistance." 

The  queen  made  no  reply.  Quietly  she  followed  the 
king  into  the  hall,  in  which  Lafayette,  surrounded  by  the 
ministers  and  gentlemen,  was  standing.  On  the  entrance 
of  the  royal  couple,  the  general  advanced  to  meet  them 
with  a  reverential  salutation. 

"Sire,"  said  Lafayette,  with  cheerful  confidence — "sire, 
I  have  come  to  protect  your  majesties  and  the  National 
Assembly  against  all  those  who  shall  venture  to  threaten 
you." 

"  Are  you  assured  of  the  fidelity  and  trustworthiness  of 
your  troops?"  asked  the  queen,  whose  flaming  eyes  rested 
upon  Lafayette's  countenance  as  if  she  wanted  to  read  his 
utmost  thoughts. 


192  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

But  these  eyes  did  not  confuse  the  cheerful  calmness  of 
the  general. 

"  I  know,  madame,  that  I  can  rely  upon  the  fidelity  of 
my  soldiers,"  answered  he,  confidently.  "They  are  de- 
voted to  me  to  the  death,  and  as  I  shall  command  them, 
they  will  watch  over  the  security  of  the  king  and  queen, 
and  keep  all  injury  from  them." 

The  queen  detected  the  touch  of  scorn  in  these  loud- 
sounding  words,  but  she  pretended  to  believe  them.  At 
last  she  really  did  believe  them,  for  Lafayette  repeated 
emphatically  that  from  this  time  nothing  more  was  to  be 
feared  for  the  royal  family,  and  that  all  danger  was  past. 
The  guard  should  be  chosen  this  night  from  his  own 
troops;  the  Paris  National  Guard  should  restore  peace 
again  in  Versailles,  and  keep  an  eye  upon  the  crowds  which 
had  encamped  upon  the  great  square  before  the  palace. 

Lafayette  promised  well  for  his  army,  for  the  howling, 
shrieking  women,  for  the  cursing,  raging  men. 

And  the  king  was  satisfied  with  these  assurances  of  Gen- 
eral Lafayette,  and  so,  too,  was  Marie  Antoinette  at  last. 
Louis  ordered  the  garde  du  corps  to  march  to  Kambouillet, 
and  reserved  only  the  necessary  sentinels  in  the  palace.  In 
the  immediate  neighborhood  the  soldiers  of  Lafayette  were 
stationed.  The  general  once  more  made  the  rounds,  and 
then,  as  if  every  thing  was  in  a  position  of  the  greatest 
security,  he  went  into  the  palace  to  spend  the  night  there, 
and  in  peaceful  slumbers  to  refresh  himself  for  the  labors 
of  the  day. 

The  king,  too,  had  retired  to  his  apartments,  and  the 
valets  who  had  assisted  his  majesty  to  undress  had  not  left 
the  sleeping-room,  when  the  loud,  uniform  breathing 
which  issued  from  the  silken  curtains  of  the  bed  told  them 
that  the  king  had  already  fallen  asleep.  The  queen,  too, 
had  gone  to  rest,  and  while  laying  her  wearied  and  heavy 
head  upon  the  cushions,  she  tenderly  besought  both  her 
maids  to  lie  down  too.  All  was  quiet  now  in  the  dark 
palace  of  Versailles.  The  king  and  the  queen  slept. 

But  through  the  dark,  deserted  halls  which  that  day  had 
witnessed  so  much  pain  and  anxiety,  resounded  now  the 
clang  of  the  raging,  howling  voices  which  came  up  from 
the  square,  and  hurled  their  curses  against  the  queen. 


THE    NIGHT    OF    HORROR.  193 

In  the  palace  of  Versailles  they  were  asleep,  but  with- 
out, before  the  palace,  Uproar  and  Hate  kept  guard,  and 
with  wild  thoughts  of  murder  stalked  around  the  palace  of 
the  Kings  of  France. 

How  soon  were  these  thoughts  to  become  fact!  Sleep, 
Marie  Antoinette,  sleep!  One  last  hour  of  peace  and 
security! 

One  last  hour!  Before  the  morning  dawns  Hate  will 
awaken  thee,  and  Murder's  terrible  voice  will  resound 
through  the  halls  of  the  Kings  of  France ! 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE     NIGHT    OF     HORROR. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  slept!  The  fearful  excitement  of 
the  past  day  and  of  the  stormy  evening,  crowded  with  its 
events,  had  exhausted  the  powers  of  the  queen,  and  she 
had  fallen  into  that  deep,  dreamless  sleep  which  sympa- 
thetic and  gracious  Nature  sometimes  sends  to  those  whom 
Fate  pursues  with  suffering  and  peril. 

Marie  Antoinette  slept!  In  the  interior  of  the  palace  a 
deep  calm  reigned,  and  Lafayette  had  withdrawn  from  the 
court  in  order  to  sleep  too.  But  below,  upon  this  court, 
Revolution  kept  her  vigils,  and  glared  with  looks  of  hatred 
and  vengeance  to  the  dark  walls  behind  which  the  queen 
was  sleeping. 

The  crown  of  France  had  for  centuries  sinned  so  much, 
and  proved  false  so  much,  that  the  love  of  the  people  had 
at  last  been  transformed  into  hate.  The  crown  had  so 
long  sown  the  wind,  that  it  could  not  wonder  if  it  had  to 
reap  the  whirlwind.  The  crimes  and  innovations  which 
Louis  XIV.  and  Louis  XV.  had  sown  upon  the  soil  of 
France,  had  created  an  abyss  between  the  crown  and  the 
people,  out  of  which  revolution  must  arise  to  avenge  those 
crimes  and  sins  of  the  past  upon  the  present.  The  sins  of 
the  fathers  had  to  be  visited  upon  the  children  to  the 
third  and  fourth  generation. 

Marie  Antoinette  did  not  know  it;  she  did  not  see  the 
abyss  which  had  opened  between  the  crown  and  the  people; 


194  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

the  courtiers  and  flatterers  had  covered  it  with  flowers,  and 
with  the  sounds  of  festivity  the  cries  of  a  distressed  people 
had  been  drowned. 

Now  the  flowers  were  torn  away,  the  festive  sounds  had 
ceased,  and  Marie  Antoinette  saw  the  abyss  between  the 
crown  and  the  people;  she  heard  the  curses,  the  raging 
cries  of  these  exasperated  men,  who  had  been  changed  from 
weak,  obedient  subjects  into  threatening,  domineering 
rebels.  She  looked  with  steady  eye  down  into  the  abyss, 
and  saw  the  monster  rise  from  the  depths  to  destroy  her- 
self and  her  whole  house ;  but  she  would  not  draw  back, 
she  would  not  yield.  She  would  rather  be  dragged  down 
and  destroyed  than  meekly  and  miserably  to  make  her  way 
to  the  camp  of  her  enemies,  to  take  refuge  with  them. 
Better  to  die  with  the  crown  on  her  head  than  to  live 
robbed  of  her  crown  in  lowliness  and  in  a  subject  condition. 

Thus  thought  Marie  Antoinette,  as  at  the  close  of  that 
dreadful  day  she  went  to  rest ;  this  was  her  prayer  as 
she  sank  upon  her  couch : 

"  Give  me  power,  0  God,  to  die  as  a  queen,  if  I  can  no 
longer  live  as  a  queen!  And  strengthen  my  husband,  that 
he  may  not  only  be  a  good  man,  but  a  king  too!" 

With  this  prayer  on  her  trembling  lips,  she  had  fallen 
asleep.  But  when  Campan  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  queen's 
bed  to  watch  her  mistress  while  she  slept,  Marie  Antoinette 
opened  her  eyes  again,  and  spoke  in  her  friendly  way  to  her 
devoted  servant. 

"Go  to  bed,  Campan,"  said  she,  "and  the  second  maid 
must  lie  down  too.  You  all  need  rest  after  this  evil  day, 
and  sleep  is  so  refreshing.  Go,  Campan,  good-night!" 

Madame  de  Campan  had  to  obey,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  antechamber,  where  were  the  two  other  maids. 

"The  queen  is  asleep,"  she  said,  "and  she  has  com- 
manded us  to  go  to  rest  too.  Shall  we  do  so?" 

The  two  women  answered  only  with  a  shake  of  the  head 
and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  we  are  agreed,"  said  Madame  de 
Campan,  reaching  her  hand  to  them.  "  For  us  there  must 
be  no  sleep  to-night,  for  we  must  watch  the  queen.  Come, 
my  friends,  let  us  go  into  the  antechamber.  We  shall  find 
Mr.  Varicourt,  who  will  tell  us  what  is  going  on  outside." 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  195 

On  tiptoe  the  three  women  stole  out  into  the  second  ante- 
chamber, which  was  lighted  only  with  a  couple  of  glim- 
mering wax  tapers,  and  in  its  desolate  disorder,  with  the 
confusion  of  chairs,  divans,  and  tables,  brought  back  sad 
recollections  of  the  wild  women  who  had  on  the  day  before 
pressed  into  this  apartment  in  their  desire  to  speak  with 
the  queen.  Somebody  had  told  them  that  this  was  the 
antechamber  of  the  queen,  and  they  had  withdrawn  in 
order  to  go  to  the  antechamber  of  the  king.  But  they 
now  knew  the  way  that  led  to  the  apartments  of  the  queen ; 
they  knew  now  that  if  one  turned  to  the  left  side  of  the 
palace,  he  would  come  at  once  into  the  apartments  occu- 
pied by  the  royal  family,  and  that  the  queen  occupied  the 
adjacent  rooms,  directly  behind  the  hall  of  the  Swiss 
Guard. 

Madame  de  Campan  thought  of  this,  as  she  cast  her 
glance  over  this  antechamber  which  adjoined  the  Swiss 
hall,  and  this  thought  filled  her  with  horror. 

Varicourt  had  not  yet  come  in;  nothing  disturbed  the 
silence  around  her,  except  the  dreadful  shouting  and  sing- 
ing outside  of  the  palace. 

"Let  us  go  back  into  the  waiting-room,"  whispered  her 
companions,  "  it  is  too  gloomy  here.  Only  hear  how  they 
shout  and  laugh!  0  God,  it  is  a  fearful  night!" 

"  Yes,  a  fearful  night,"  sighed  Madame  de  Oampan, 
"  and  the  day  that  follows  it  may  be  yet  more  fearful.  But 
we  must  not  lose  our  courage.  All  depends  upon  our  hav- 
ing decision,  upon  our  defying  danger,  and  defending  our 
mistress.  And  see,  there  comes  Mr.  Varicourt,"  she  con- 
tinued, earnestly,  as  the  door  quickly  opened,  and  an  offi- 
cer of  the  Swiss  guard  came  in  with  great  haste. 

"  Tell  us,  my  friend,  what  news  do  you  bring  us?" 

"  Bad  news,"  sighed  Varicourt.  "  The  crowd  is  increas- 
ing every  moment.  New  columns  have  arrived  from 
Paris,  and  not  only  the  common  people,  but  the  speakers 
and  agitators  are  here.  Everywhere  are  groups  listening 
to  the  dreadful  speeches  which  urge  on  to  regicide  and 
revolution.  It  is  a  dreadful,  horrible  night.  Treachery, 
hatred,  wickedness  around  the  palace,  and  cowardice  and 
desertion  pass  out  from  the  palace  to  them,  and  open  the 
doors.  Many  of  the  royal  soldiers  have  made  common 


196  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

cause  with  the  people,  and  walk  arm  in  arm  with  them 
around  the  square." 

"And  what  do  these  dreadful  men  want?"  asked  Cam- 
pan.  "  Why  do  they  encamp  around  the  palace?  What 
is  their  object?" 

Mr.  Varicourt  sadly  bowed  his  head,  and  a  loud  sigh 
came  from  his  courageous  breast.  "  They  want  what  they 
shall  never  have  while  I  am  alive,"  he  then  said,  with  a 
decided  look.  "  I  have  sworn  fideKty  to  the  king  and 
queen,  and  I  shall  keep  it  to  death.  My  duty  calls  me, 
for  the  hour  of  changing  guards  is  near,  and  my  post  is 
below  at  the  great  staircase  which  leads  up  here.  We  shall 
meet  at  daylight,  if  I  am  then  alive.  But  till  then  we 
shall  do  our  duty.  I  shall  guard  the  grand  staircase,  do 
you  guard  the  sleeping-room  of  the  queen." 

"  Yes,  we  will  do  our  duty,"  answered  Madame  de  Cam- 
pan,  extending  her  hand  to  him.  "  We  will  watch  over 
those  to  whom  we  have  devoted  ourselves,  and  to  whom  we 
have  vowed  fidelity.  No  one  shall  pass  into  the  chamber 
of  the  queen  while  we  are  alive,  shall  there?" 

"Never,"  replied  both  of  the  women,  with  courageous 
decision. 

"  And  no  one  shall  ascend  the  great  staircase  so  long  as  I 
live,"  said  Varicourt.  "Adieu  now,  ladies,  and  listen 
carefully  to  every  sound.  If  a  voice  calls  to  you,  'It  is 
time,'  wake  the  queen  and  save  her,  for  danger  will  then 
be  right  upon  her.  Hark,  it  is  striking  three,  that  is  the 
hour  of  changing  guard.  Farewell!" 

He  went  quickly  to  the  door,  but  there  he  stood  still, 
and  turned  once  more  around.  His  glance  encountered 
that  of  his  friend,  and  Madame  de  Campan  understood  its 
silent  language  well,  for  she  hastened  to  him. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me?" 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered  softly,  "  I  have  a  presentiment  that 
I  shall  not  survive  the  horrors  of  this  night.  I  have  one 
whom  I  love,  who,  as  you  know,  is  betrothed  to  me.  If  I 
fall  in  the  service  of  the  king,  I  ask  you  to  see  my  Cecilia, 
and  tell  her  that  I  died  with  her  name  upon  my  lips !  Tell 
her  not  to  weep  for  me,  but  at  the  same  time  not  to  forget 
me.  Farewell." 

He  hurriedly  opened  the  door  and  hastened  away.     Ma- 


THE    NIGHT    OF    HORROR.  197 

dame  de  Campan  repressed  the  tears  which  would  fill  her 
eyes,  and  turned  to  the  two  maids. 

"Now,  "said  she,  with  decisive  tones,  "let  us  return  to  the 
waiting-room  and  watch  the  door  of  the  queen's  chamber." 

With  a  firm  step  she  walked  on,  and  the  ladies  followed. 
Without  any  noise  they  entered  the  little  hall,  where  in 
the  mornings  those  ladies  of  the  court  used  to  gather  who 
had  the  right  to  be  present  while  the  queen  dressed  herself. 

Madame  de  Campan  locked  the  door  through  which  they 
had  entered,  behind  her,  drew  out  the  key  and  hid  it  in 
her  pocket. 

"  No  one  will  enter  here  with  my  will,"  said  she.  "  Now 
we  will  place  chairs  before  the  door  of  the  sleeping-room, 
and  sit  there.  We  shall  then  have  erected  a  barricade  be- 
fore our  queen,  a  wall  which  will  be  as  strong  as  any  other, 
for  there  beat  three  courageous  hearts  within  it." 

They  sat  down  upon  the  chairs,  whose  high  backs  leaned 
against  the  door  of  the  queen's  room,  and,  taking  one  an- 
other's hands,  began  their  hallowed  watch. 

All  was  still  and  desolate  around  them.  No  one  of  the 
women  could  break  the  silence  with  a  word  or  a  remark. 
With  dumb  lips,  with  open  eyes,  the  three  watchers  sat 
and  hearkened  to  the  sounds  of  the  night.  At  times, 
when  the  roaring  without  was  uncommonly  loud  and 
wild,  they  pressed  one  another's  hands,  and  spoke  to  one 
another  in  looks;  but  when  the  sounds  died  away,  they 
turned  their  eyes  once  more  to  the  windows  and  listened. 

Slowly,  dreadfully  slowly  moved  the  fingers  of  the  great 
clock  above  on  the  chimney.  Madame  de  Campan  often 
fixed  her  gaze  upon  it,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  time 
must  have  ceased  to  go  on,  for  it  appeared  to  be  an  eter- 
nity since  Varicourt  had  taken  leave  of  her,  and  yet  the 
two  longer  fingers  on  the  dial  had  not  indicated  the  fourth 
hour  after  midnight.  But  the  pendulum  still  continued 
its  regular,  even  swinging;  the  time  went  forward;  only 
every  moment  made  the  horror,  the  fear  of  unknown  dan- 
ger seem  like  an  eternity! 

At  last,  slowly,  with  calm  stroke,  the  hour  began  to 
strike  four  o'clock.  And  amid  the  dreadful  sounds  outside 
the  palace,  the  women  could  recognize  the  deep  tones  of 
the  great  clock  on  the  Swiss  hall.  Four  o'clock!  One 


198  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

solitary,  dreadful  hour  is  passed!  Three  hours  more,  three 
eternities  before  daylight  comes! 

But  hark!  what  new,  fearful  noise  without?  That  is 
no  more  the  sound  of  singing  and  shouting,  and  crying — 
that  is  the  battle-cry — that  is  the  rattle  and  clatter  of 
muskets.  The  three  women  sprang  up,  moved  as  if  by 
one  thought,  animated  by  one  purpose.  They  moved  the 
chairs  back  from  the  door,  ready,  as  soon  as  danger  should 
approach,  to  go  into  the  chamber  of  the  queen  and  awaken 
her.  Campan  then  slipped  across  the  room  to  the  door  of 
the  antechamber,  which  she  had  locked  before.  She  laid 
her  ear  to  the  key-hole,  and  listened.  All  was  still  and 
quiet  in  the  next  room ;  no  one  was  in  the  antechamber. 
There  was  no  immediate  danger  near,  for  Varicourt's 
voice  had  not  yet  uttered  the  cry  of  warning. 

But  more  fearful  grew  the  noise  outside.  The  crackle 
of  musketry  was  more  noticeable,  and  every  now  and  then 
there  seemed  to  be  heavy  strokes  as  if  directed  against  the 
palace,  sounding  as  if  the  people  were  attempting  to  force 
the  iron  gate  of  the  front  court. 

"I  must  know  what  is  going  on,"  whispered  Campan, 
and  with  cool  decision  she  put  the  key  into  the  door, 
turned  it,  entered  the  antechamber,  and  flew  to  the  win- 
dow, where  there  was  a  view  of  the  whole  court;  and  a 
fearful  sight  met  her  there.  The  crowd  had  broken  the 
gate,  pressed  into  the  court,  and  was  surging  in  great 
masses  toward  the  palace  doors.  Here  and  there  torches 
threw  their  glare  over  these  masses,  disclosing  men  with 
angry  gestures,  and  women  with  streaming  hair,  swinging 
their  arms  savagely,  and  seeming  like  a  picture  of  hell,  not 
to  be  surpassed  in  horror  even  by  the  phantasms  of  Dante. 
Women  changed  to  furies  and  bacchanalians,  roaring  and 
shouting  in  their  murderous  desires;  men,  like  blood- 
thirsty tigers,  preparing  to  spring  upon  their  prey,  and 
give  it  the  death-stroke;  swinging  pikes  and  guns,  which 
gleamed  horribly  in  the  glare  of  the  torches;  arms  and 
fists  bearing  threatening  daggers  and  knives!  All  this  was 
pressing  on  upon  the  palace — all  these  clinched  fists  would 
soon  be  engaged  in  hammering  upon  the  walls  which  sep- 
arated the  king  and  queen  from  the  people — the  execu- 
tioner from  his  victim! 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  199 

All  at  once  there  rang  out  a  fearful,  thundering  cry, 
which  made  the  windows  rattle,  and  called  forth  a  terrible 
echo  above  in  the  deserted  hall;  for  through  all  these 
shrieks  and  howls,  there  resounded  now  a  piercing  cry, 
such  as  only  the  greatest  pain  or  the  most  instant  need 
can  extort  from  human  lips. 

"  That  was  a  death-cry,"  whispered  Madame  de  Campan, 
trembling,  and  drawing  back  from  the  window.  "  They 
have  certainly  killed  the  Swiss  guards,  who  are  keeping 
the  door;  they  will  now  pour  into  the  palace.  0  God! 
what  will  become  of  Varicourt?  I  must  know  what  is 
going  on!" 

She  flew  through  the  antechamber  and  opened  the  door 
of  the  Swiss  hall.  It  was  empty,  but  outside  of  it  could  be 
heard  a  confused,  mixed  mass  of  sounds,  cries,  and  the 
tramping  as  of  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  men  coming  on. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sound,  more  distinct  every 
moment.  All  at  once  the  door  was  flung  open  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Swiss  hall,  the  door  which  led  out,  and  Vari- 
court appeared  in  it,  pushed  backward  by  the  raging, 
howling  mass.  He  still  sought  to  resist  the  oncoming 
tramp  of  these  savage  men,  and,  with  a  movement  like 
lightning,  putting  his  weapon  across  the  door,  he  was  able 
for  one  minute  to  hold  the  place  against  the  tide — just  so 
long  as  the  arms  which  held  the  weapon  had  in  them  the 
pulse  of  life!  Varicourt  looked  like  a  dying  man;  his 
uniform  was  torn  and  cut,  his  face  deathly  pale,  and  on 
one  side  disfigured  by  the  blood  which  was  streaming  down 
from  a  broad  wound  in  his  forehead. 

"  It  is  time,  it  is  time!"  he  cried,  with  a  loud  tremulous 
voice,  and,  as  he  saw  for  an  instant  the  face  of  Campan  at 
the  opposite  door,  a  flash  of  joy  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Save  the  queen!     They  will  murder  her!"  * 

Madame  de  Campan  hastily  closed  the  door,  drew  the 
great  bolt,  and  then  sprang  through  the  antechamber  into 
the  waiting-room,  and  bolted  its  door  too.  Then,  after 
she  had  done  that — after  she  had  raised  this  double  wall 
between  the  sleeping  queen  and  the  raging  mob — she  sank 
upon  her  knees  like  one  who  was  utterly  crushed,  and 
raised  her  folded  hands  to  heaven. 

*  Varicourt's  last  words.— See  "M6moires  de  Madame  de  Campan,"  vol.  ii.» 
p.  77. 


200  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"Have  mercy  on  his  soul,  0  God!  take  him  graciously 
to  heaven!"  whispered  she,  with  trembling  lips. 

"For  whom  are  you  praying?"  asked  the  two  women,  in 
low  voices,  hurrying  up  to  her.  "  Who  is  dead?" 

"Mr.  Varicourt,"  answered  Campan,  with  a  sigh.  "I 
heard  his  death-cry,  as  I  was  bolting  the  door  of  the  ante- 
chamber. But  we  cannot  stop  to  weep  and  lament.  We 
must  save  the  queen !" 

And  she  sprang  up  from  her  knees,  flew  through  the 
room,  and  opened  the  door  leading  to  the  queen's  chamber. 

At  that  moment  a  fearful  crash  was  heard,  then  a  loud 
shout  of  triumph  in  the  outer  antechamber. 

"  The  queen!     We  want  the  heart  of  the  queen!" 

"  They  have  broken  down  the  door  of  the  antechamber — 
they  are  in  the  waiting-room!"  whispered  Campan. 
"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  Come,  friends,  come!" 

And  she  hastened  to  the  bed  of  the  queen,  who  was  still 
lying  in  that  heavy,  unrefreshing  sleep  which  usually  fol- 
lows exhaustion  and  intense  excitement. 

"  Your  majesty,  your  majesty,  wake!" 

"  What  is  it,  Campan?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  opening 
her  eyes,  and  hastily  sitting  up  in  bed.  "  Why  do  you 
waken  me?  What  has  happened?" 

The  fearful  sounds  without,  the  crashing  of  the'door  of  the 
little  waiting-room,  gave  answer.  The  rough,  hard  voices 
of  the  exasperated  women,  separated  now  from  the  queen 
by  only  one  thin  door,  qu'ckly  told  all  that  had  happened. 

Marie  Antoinette  sprang  from  her  bed.  "  Dress  me 
quick,  quick!" 

"  Impossible !  There  is  no  time.  Only  hear  how  the 
gunstocks  beat  against  the  door!  They  will  break  it 
down,  and  then  your  majesty  is  lost!  The  clothes  on 
without  stopping  to  fasten  them!  Now  fly,  your  majesty, 
fly!  Through  the  side-door — through  the  (Eil  de  Boeuf !" 

Madame  de  Campan  went  in  advance;  the  two  women 
supported  the  queen  and  carried  her  loose  clothes,  and 
then  they  flew  on  through  the  still  and  deserted  corridors 
to  the  sleeping-room  of  the  king. 

It  was  empty — no  one  there ! 

"0  God!  Campan,  where  is  the  king?  I  must  go  to 
him.  My  place  is  by  his  side!  Where  is  the  king?" 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  201 

"Here  I  am,  Marie,  here!"  cried  the  king,  who  just 
then  entered  and  saw  the  eager,  anxious  face  of  his  wife. 
"  I  hurried  to  save  our  most  costly  possessions!" 

He  laid  the  dauphin,  only  half  awake,  and  lying  on  his 
breast,  in  the  arms  which  Marie  Antoinette  extended  to 
him,  and  then  led  her  little  daughter  to  her,  who  had  been 
brought  in  by  Madame  Tourzel. 

"Now,"  said  the  king,  calmly,  "now  that  I  have  col- 
lected my  dearest  treasures,  I  will  go  and  see  what  is  going 
on." 

But  Marie  Antoinette  held  him  back.  "  There  is  de- 
struction, treachery,  and  murder  outside.  Crime  may 
break  in  here  and  overwhelm  us,  but  we  ought  not  to  go 
out  and  seek  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  king,  "  we  will  remain  here  and  await 
what  comes." 

And  turning  to  his  valet,  who  was  then  entering,.  Louis 
continued :  "  Bring  me  my  chocolate,  I  want  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  time  to  breakfast,  for  I  am  hungry!" 

"  Sire,  now?  shall  we  breakfast  now?"  asked  the  queen, 
amazed. 

"Why  not?"  answered  Louis  calmly.  "If  the  body  is 
strengthened,  we  look  at  every  thing  more  composedly  and 
confidently.  You  must  take  breakfast  too,  Marie,  for  who 
knows  whether  we  shall  find  time  for  some  hours  after  this?" 

"I!  oh,  I  need  no  breakfast,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette ; 
and  as  she  saw  Louis  eagerly  taking  a  cup  of  chocolate 
from  the  hands  of  a  valet,  and  was  going  to  enjoy  \t,  she 
turned  away  to  repress  the  tears  of  anger  and  pain  which 
in  spite  of  herself  pressed  into  her  eyes. 

"Mamma  queen,"  cried  the  dauphin,  who  was  yet  in 
her  arms,  "  I  should  like  my  breakfast  too.  My  choco- 
late— I  should  like  my  chocolate  too!" 

The  queen  compelled  herself  to  smile,  carried  the  child 
to  its  father,  and  softly  set  him  down  on  the  king's  knee. 

"  Sire,"  said  she,  "  will  the  King  of  France  teach  his  son 
to  take  breakfast,  while  revolution  is  thundering  without, 
and  breaking  down,  with  treasonable  hands,  the  doors  of 
the  royal  palace?  Campan,  come  here — help  me  arrange 
my  toilet;  I  want  to  prepare  myself  to  give  audience  to 
revolution!" 


202  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HEE   SON. 

And  withdrawing  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  the  queen 
finished  her  toilet,  for  which  her  women  fortunately  had 
in  their  flight  brought  the  materials. 

While  the  queen  was  dressing  and  the  king  breakfasting 
with  the  children,  the  cabinet  of  the  king  began  to  fill. 
All  Louis's  faithful  servants,  then  the  ministers  and  some 
of  the  deputies,  had  hurried  to  the  palace  to  be  at  the  side 
of  the  king  and  queen  at  the  hour  of  danger. 

Every  one  of  them  brought  new  tidings  of  horror.  St. 
Priest  told  how  he,  entering  the  Swiss  room,  at  the  door 
leading  into  the  antechamber  of  the  queen,  had  seen  the 
body  of  Varicourt  covered  with  wounds.  The  Duke  de 
Liancourt  had  seen  a  dreadful  man,  of  gigantic  size,  with 
heavy  beard,  the  arms  of  his  blouse  rolled  up  high,  and 
bearing  a  heavy  hatchet-knife  in  his  hand,  springing  upon 
the  person  of  the  faithful  Swiss,  in  order  to  sever  his  head 
from  his  body.  The  Count  de  Borennes  had  seen  the 
corpse  of  the  Swiss  officer,  Baron  de  Deshuttes,  who 
guarded  the  iron  gate,  and  whom  the  people  murdered  as 
they  entered.  The  Marquis  de  Croissy  told  of  the  heroism 
with  which  another  Swiss,  Miomandre  of  St.  Marie,  had 
defended  the  door  between  the  suites  of  the  king  and 
queen,  and  had  gained  time  to  draw  the  bolt  and  barricade 
the  door.  And  during  all  these  reports,  and  while  the 
cabinet  was  filling  more  and  more  with  pale  men  and 
women,  the  king  went  composedly  on  dispatching  his 
breakfast. 

The  queen,  who  had  long  before  completed  her  toilet, 
now  went  up  to  him,  and  with  gentle,  tremulous  voice  con- 
jured him  to  declare  what  should  be  done— to  come  at  last 
out  of  this  silence,  and  to  speak  and  act  worthy  of  a  king. 

Louis  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  set  the  replenished  cup 
which  he  was  just  lifting  to  his  mouth,  on  the  silver 
waiter.  At  once  the  queen  beckoned  to  the  valet  Hue  to 
come  up. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  commandingly,  "  take  these  things  out. 
The  king  has  finished  his  breakfast." 

Louis  sighed,  and  with  his  eye  followed  the  valet,  who 
was  carrying  the  breakfast  into  the  garde-robe. 

"Now,  sire,"  whispered  Marie  Antoinette,  "show  your- 
self a  king. " 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  203 

"My  love,"  replied  the  king,  quietly,  "it  is  very  hard 
to  show  myself  a  king  when  the  people  do  not  choose  to 
regard  me  as  one.  Only  hear  that  shouting  and  yelling, 
and  then  tell  me  what  I  can  do  as  a  king  to  bring  these 
mad  men  to  peace  and  reason?" 

"  Sire,  raise  your  voice  as  king ;  tell  them  that  you  will 
avenge  the  crimes  of  this  night,  take  the  sword  in  your 
hand  and  defend  the  throne  of  your  fathers  and  the  throne 
of  your  son,  and  then  you  will  see  these  rebels  retire,  and 
you  will  collect  around  you  men  who  will  be  animated  with 
fresh  courage,  and  who  will  take  new  fire  from  your  ex- 
ample. Oh,  sire,  disregard  now  the  pleadings  of  your 
noble,  gentle  heart;  show  yourself  firm  and  decided. 
Have  no  leniency  for  traitors  and  rebels!" 

"  Tell  me  what  I  shall  do,"  murmured  the  king,  with  a 
sigh. 

Marie  Antoinette  stooped  down  to  his  ear.  "Sire," 
whispered  she,  "  send  at  once  to  Vincennes,  and  the  other 
neighboring  places.  Order  the  troops  to  come  hither,  col- 
lect an  army,  put  yourself  at  its  head,  march  on  Paris, 
declare  war  on  the  rebellious  capital,  and  you  will  march 
as  conqueror  into  your  recaptured  city.  Oh,  only  no 
yielding,  no  submission!  Only  give  the  order,  sire;  say 
that  you  will  do  so,  and  I  will  summon  one  of  my  faithful 
ones  to  give  him  orders  to  hasten  to  Vincennes." 

And  while  the  queen  whispered  eagerly  to  the  king,  her 
flashing  glance  sped  across  to  Toulan,  who,  in  the  tumult, 
had  found  means  to  come  in,  and  now  looked  straight  at 
the  queen.  Now,  as  her  glance  came  to  him  as  an  un- 
spoken command,  he  made  his  way  irresistibly  forward 
through  the  crowd  of  courtiers,  ministers,  and  ladies,  and 
now  stood  directly  behind  the  queen. 

"  Has  your  majesty  orders  for  me?"  he  asked,  softly. 

She  looked  anxiously  at  the  king,  waiting  for  an  answer, 
an  order.  But  the  king  was  dumb ;  in  order  not  to  answer 
his  wife,  he  drew  the  dauphin  closer  to  him  and  caressed  him. 

"  Has  your  majesty  commands  for  me?"  asked  Toulan 
once  more. 

Marie  Antoinette  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  and  let  Toulan  see  her  face  darkened  with  grief  and 
despair. 

14 


204  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"No,"  she  whispered,  "I  have  only  to  obey;  I  have  no 
commands  to  give!" 

"Lafayette,"  was  now  heard  in  the  corridor — "General 
Lafayette  is  coming!" 

The  queen  advanced  with  hasty  steps  toward  the  enter- 
ing general. 

"Sir,"  she  cried,  "is  this  the  peace  and  security  that 
you  promised  us,  and  for  which  you  pledged  your  word? 
Hear  that  shouting  without,  see  us  as  if  beleaguered  here, 
and  then  tell  me  how  it  agrees  with  the  assurances  which 
you  made  to  me!" 

"Madame,  I  have  been  myself  deceived,"  answered  La- 
fayette. "  The  most  sacred  promises  were  made  to  me ;  all 
my  requests  and  propositions  were  yielded  to.  I  succeeded 
in  pacifying  the  crowd,  and  I  really  believed  and  hoped 
that  they  would  continue  quiet;  that — " 

"Sir,"  interrupted  the  queen,  impatiently,  "Whom  do 
you  mean  by  'they?'  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  in  such 
tones  of  respect?" 

"  Madame,  I  am  speaking  of  the  people,  with  whom  I 
came  to  an  understanding,  and  who  promised  me  to  keep 
the  peace,  and  to  respect  the  slumbers  of  your  majesty." 

"  You  are  not  speaking  of  the  people,  but  of  the  rebels, 
the  agitators,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  You  speak  of  high  traitors,  who  break  violently  into  the 
palace  of  the  king;  of  murderers,  who  have  destroyed 
two  of  our  faithful  subjects.  Sir,  it  is  of  such  crime  that 
you  speak  with  respect;  it  is  with  such  a  rabble  that  you 
have  dealt,  instead  of  ordering  your  soldiers  to  cut  them 
down." 

"Madame,"  said  Lafayette,  turning  pale,  "had  I  at- 
tempted to  do  that,  your  majesty  would  not  have  found 
refuge  in  this  chamber.  For  the  anger  of  the  mob  is  like 
the  lightning  and  thunder  of  the  tempest,  it  heeds  neither 
door  nor  bolt,  and  if  it  has  once  broken  loose,  nothing  can 
restrain  or  stop  it." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  queen,  with  a  mocking  laugh,  "it  is 
plain  that  Mr.  Lafayette  has  been  pursuing  his  studies  in 
America,  at  the  university  of  revolutions.  He  speaks  of 
the  people  with  a  deference  as  if  it  were  another  majesty 
to  bow  to." 


THE    NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  205 

"And  in  that  Lafayette  is  right,"  said  the  king,  rising 
and  approaching  them.  "Hear  the  yell,  madame!  it 
sounds  like  the  roaring  of  lions,  and  you  know,  Marie, 
that  the  lion  is  called  the  king  of  beasts.  Tell  us,  general, 
what  does  the  lion  want,  and  what  does  his  roaring  mean?" 

"  Sire,  the  enemies  of  the  royal  family,  the  agitators  and 
rebels,  who  have  within  these  last  hours  come  from  Paris, 
have  urged  on  the  people  afresh,  and  kindled  them  with 
senseless  calumnies.  They  have  persuaded  the  people  that 
your  majesty  has  summoned  hither  the  regiments  from  all 
the  neighboring  stations ;  that  you  are  collecting  an  army 
to  put  yourself  at  its  head  and  march  against  Paris." 

Louis  cast  a  significant  look  at  his  wife,  which  was  an- 
swered with  a  proud  toss  of  her  head. 

"  I  have  sought  in  vain,"  continued  Lafayette,  "  to  make 
the  poor,  misguided  men  conscious  of  the  impossibility  of 
such  a  plan." 

"Yet,  sir,"  broke  in  Marie  Antoinette,  fiercely,  "the 
execution  of  this  plan  would  save  the  crown  from  dishonor 
and  humiliation!" 

"  Only,  madame,  that  it  is  exactly  the  execution  of  it 
which  is  impossible,"  answered  Lafayette,  gently  bowing. 
"  If  you  could  give  wings  to  the  soldiers  of  the  various  gar- 
risons away  from  here,  the  plan  might  be  good,  and  the 
army  might  save  the  country !  But  as,  unfortunately,  this 
cannot  be,  we  must  think  of  other  means  of  help,  for  your 
majesty  hears  the  danger  knocking  now  at  the  door,  and 
we  must  do  with  pacificatory  measures  what  we  cannot  do 
with  force." 

"  How  will  you  use  pacificatory  measures,  sir?"  asked 
Marie  Antoinette,  angrily. 

Lafayette  cast  upon  her  a  sad,  pained  look,  and  turned 
to  the  king.  "Sire,"  said  he,  with  loud,  solemn  voice, 
"  sire,  the  people  are  frightfully  carried  away.  Stimulat- 
ing speeches  have  driven  them  to  despair  and  to  madness. 
It  is  only  with  difficulty  that  we  have  succeeded  in  keeping 
the  mob  out  of  the  palace,  and  closing  the  door  again. 
'Paris  shall  be  laid  in  ashes!'  is  the  horrible  cry  which 
drives  all  these  hearts  to  rage,  and  to  which  they  give  un- 
conditional belief!" 

"  I  will  show  myself  to  the  people,"  said  Louis.     "  I  will 


206  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

tell  them  that  they  have  been  deceived.  I  will  give  them 
my  royal  word  that  I  have  no  hostile  designs  whatever 
against  Paris. " 

General  Lafayette  sighed,  and  dropped  his  head  heavily 
upon  his  breast. 

"Do  you  counsel  me  not  to  do  this?"  asked  the  king, 
timidly. 

"  Sire,"  answered  the  general,  with  a  shrug,  "  the  people 
are  now  in  such  an  excited,  unreasonable  state,  that  words 
will  no  longer  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  them.  Your  majesty 
might  assure  them  ever  so  solemnly  that  you  entertain  no 
hostile  intentions  whatever  against  Paris,  and  that  you  will 
not  call  outside  help  to  your  assistance,  and  the  exasper- 
ated people  would  mistrust  your  assurances!  For  in  all 
their  rage  the  people  have  a  distinct  consciousness  of  the 
crimes  they  are  engaged  in  committing  in  creating  this  re- 
bellion against  the  crown,  and  they  know  that  it  were  not 
human,  that  it  were  divine,  for  your  majesty  to  forgive 
such  crimes,  and  therefore  they  would  not  credit  such  for- 
giveness." 

"  How  well  General  Lafayette  knows  how  to  interpret  the 
thoughts  of  this  fanatical  rabble,  whom  he  calls  'the 
people!'  "  ejaculated  the  queen,  with  a  scornful  laugh. 

At  this  instant  a  loud,  thundering  cry  was  heard  below, 
and  thousands  upon  thousands  of  voices  shouted,  "  The 
king!  We  want  to  see  the  king!" 

Louis's  face  lighted  up.  With  quick  step  he  hurried  to  the 
window  and  raised  it.  The  people  did  not  see  him  at  once, 
but  the  king  saw.  He  saw  the  immense  square  in  front  of 
the  palace,  which  had  been  devoted  to  the  rich  equipages 
of  the  nobility,  occupied  by  the  humbler  classes — the  troops 
of  his  staff  marching  up  in  their  gala  uniforms — he  saw  it 
filled  with  a  dense  mass  of  men  whom  Lafayette  had  called 
"the  people,"  whom  the  queen  had  termed-a  "riotous  rab- 
ble," surging  up  and  down,  head  pressed  to  head,  here  and 
there  faces  distorted  with  rage,  eyes  blazing,  fists  clinched, 
arms  bare,  and  pikes  glistening  in  the  morning  light,  while 
a  great  roar,  like  that  which  comes  from  the  sea  in  a  tem- 
pest, filled  the  air. 

"You  are  right,  Lafayette,"  said  the  king,  who  looked 
calmly  at  this  black  sea  of  human  life — "you  are  right,  this 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  207 

is  the  people;  there  are  here  probably  twenty  thousand 
men,  and  Heaven  defend  me  from  regarding  all  as  criminals 
and  rabble!  I  believe — " 

A  tremendous  shout  now  filled  the  air.  The  king  had 
been  seen,  some  one  had  noticed  him  at  the  open  window, 
and  now  all  heads  and  all  looks  were  directed  to  this  win- 
dow, and  twenty  thousand  voices  cried,  "  Long  live  the 
king!  Long  live  the  king!" 

Louis  turned  with  a  proud,  happy  look  to  the  gentlemen 
and  ministers  who  stood  near  hint,  Marie  Antoinette  hav- 
ing withdrawn  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  where, 
throwing  her  arms  around  both  of  the  children,  and  draw- 
ing them  to  her  bosom,  she  had  sunk  into  a  chair. 

"What  do  you  say  now,  gentlemen?"  asked  the  king. 
"  Did  they  not  want  to  make  me  believe  that  my  good  peo- 
ple hate  their  king,  and  wish  him  ill?  But  when  I  show 
myself  to  them,  hear  how  they  shout  to  greet  me!" 

"  To  Paris!"  was  now  the  roar  of  the  mob  below.  "  We 
want  the  king  should  go  to  Paris!" 

"  What  do  they  say?  What  do  they  want?"  asked  Louis, 
turning  to  Lafayette,  who  now  stood  close  beside  him. 

"  Sire,  they  are  shouting  their  wishes  to  you,  that  you  > 

and  the  royal  family  should  go  to  Paris." 

"  And  you,  general,  what  do  you  say?"  asked  the  king. 

"  Sire,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  already  to  say  that  words 
and  promises  are  of  no  more  avail  to  quiet  this  raving,  mad- 
dened people,  and  to  make  them  believe  that  you  have  no 
hostile  designs  against  Paris." 

"But  if  I  go  to  Paris  and  reside  there  for  a  time,  it  is 
your  opinion,  as  I  understand  it,  that  the  people  would  be 
convinced  that  I  have  no  evil  intentions  against  the  city — 
that  I  should  not  undertake  to  destroy  the  city  in  which  I 
might  live.  That  is  your  meaning,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  sire,  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  say." 

"  To  Paris,  to  Paris!"  thundered  up  from  below.  "  The 
king  shall  go  to  Paris!" 

Louis  withdrew  from  the  window  and  joined  the  circle  of 
his  ministers,  who,  with  their  pale  faces,  surrounded  him. 

"  Gentlemen,''  said  the  king,  "you  are  my  counsellors. 
Well,  give  me  your  counsel.  Tell  me  now  what  I  shall  do 
to  restore  peace  and  quiet." 


208  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

But  no  one  replied.  Perplexed  and  confused  they  looked 
down  to  the  ground,  and  only  Necker  found  courage  to 
answer  the  king  after  a  long  pause. 

"Sire,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  question  that  might  be  con- 
sidered for  days  which  your  majesty  has  submitted  to  us, 
and  on  its  answer  depends,  perhaps,  the  whole  fate  of  the 
monarchy.  But,  as  you  wish  to  know  the  opinions  of  your 
ministers,  I  will  venture  to  give  mine:  that  it  would  be 
the  safest  and  most  expedient  course  for  your  majesty  to 
comply  with  the  wishes  of  the  people,  and  go  to  Paris!" 

"  I  supposed  so,"  whispered  the  king,  dropping  his  head. 

"To  Paris!"  cried  the  queen,  raising  her  head.  "It  is 
impossible.  You  cannot  be  in  earnest  in  being  willing  to 
go  of  your  own  accord  down  into  the  abyss  of  revolution, 
in  order  to  be  destroyed  there!  To  Paris!" 

"To  Paris!"  was  the  thundering  cry  from  below,  as  if 
the  words  of  the  queen  had  awakened  a  fearful,  thousand- 
voiced  echo.  "  To  Paris !  The  king  and  the  queen  shall 
go  to  Paris!" 

"And  never  come  from  there!"  cried  the  queen,  with 
bursting  tears. 

"Speak,  Lafayette!"  cried  the  king.  "What  do  you 
think?" 

"  Sire,  I  think  that  there  is  only  one  way  to  restore  peace 
and  to  quiet  the  people,  and  that  is,  for  your  majesty  to 
go  to-day  with  the  royal  family  to  Paris." 

"It  is  my  view,  too,"  said  Louis,  calmly.  "Then  go, 
Lafayette,  tell  the  people  that  the  king  and  queen,  to- 
gether with  the  dauphin  and  the  princess,  will  journey  to- 
day to  Paris." 

The  simple  and  easily  spoken  words  had  two  very  differ- 
ent effects  in  the  cabinet  on  those  who  heard  them.  Some 
faces  lightened  up  with  joy,  some  grew  pale  with  alarm ; 
there  were  sighs  of  despair,  and  cries  of  fresh  hope. 
Every  one  felt  that  this  was  a  crisis  in  the  fate  of  the  royal 
family — some  thinking  that  it  would  bring  disaster,  others 
deliverance. 

The  queen  alone  put  on  now  a  grave,  decided  look ;  a 
lofty  pride  lighted  up  her  high  brow,  and  with  an  almost 
joyful  expression  she  looked  at  her  husband,  who  had  been 
induced  to  do  something — at  least,  to  take  a  decisive  step., 


THE   NIGHT   OF   HORROR.  209 

"The  king  has  spoken,"  she  said,  amid  the  profoundest 
silence,  "  and  it  becomes  us  to  obey  the  will  of  the  king, 
and  to  be  subject  to  it.  Madame  de  Campan,  make  all 
the  preparations  for  my  departure,  and  do  it  in  view  of  a 
long  stay  in  Paris!" 

"Now,  Lafayette,"  asked  the  king,  as  the  general  still 
delayed  in  the  room,  "  why  do  you  not  hasten  to  announce 
my  will  to  the  people?" 

"  Sire, "  answered  Lafayette,  solemnly,  "  there  are  mo- 
ments when  a  people  can  only  be  pacified  by  the  voice 
either  of  God  or  of  its  king,  and  where  every  other  human 
voice  is  overwhelmed  by  the  thunder  of  the  storm!" 

"And  you  think  that  this  is  such  a  moment?"  asked 
the  king.  "  You  think  that  I  ought  myself  to  announce 
to  the  people  what  I  mean  to  do?" 

Lafayette  bowed  and  pointed  to  the  window,  which 
shook  even  then  with  the  threatening  cry,  "The  king! 
We  will  see  the  king!  He  shall  go  to  Paris!  The  king, 
the  king!" 

Louis  listened  awhile  in  thoughtful  silence  to  this  thun- 
dering shout,  which  was  at  once  so  full  of  majesty  and 
horror ;  then  he  quickly  raised  his  head. 

"I  will  follow  your  advice,  general,"  said  he,  calmly. 
"  I  will  announce  my  decision  to  the  people.  Give  me  your 
hand,  madame,  we  will  go  into  the  balcony-room.  And 
you,  gentlemen,  follow  me!" 

The  queen  took  the  hand  of  her  husband  without  a  word, 
and  gave  the  other  to  the  little  dauphin,  who  timidly  clung 
to  her,  while  her  daughter  Therese  quietly  and  composedly 
walked  near  them. 


BOOK   III 
CHAPTER    XIV. 

TO    PAEIS. 

WITHOUT  speaking  a  word,  and  with  hasty  steps,  the 
royal  couple,  followed  by  the  ministers  and  courtiers, 
traversed  the  two  adjoining  apartments,  and  entered  the 
balcony-room,  which,  situated  at  the  centre  of  the  main 
building,  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  inner  court  and 
the  square  in  front  of  it. 

The  valet  Hue  hastened,  at  a  motion  from  the  king,  to 
throw  open  the  great  folding  doors,  and  the  king,  parting 
with  a  smile  from  Marie  Antoinette,  stepped  out  upon  the 
balcony.  In  an  instant,  as  if  the  arm  of  God  had  been  ex- 
tended and  laid  upon  this  raging  sea,  the  roaring  ceased ; 
then,  as  soon  as  the  king  was  recognized,  a  multitudinous 
shout  went  up,  increasing  every  moment,  and  sending  its 
waves  beyond  the  square,  out  into  the  adjoining  streets. 

"  The  king!     Long  live  the  king!" 

Louis,  pale  with  emotion  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
went  forward  to  the  very  edge  of  the  balcony,  and,  as  a 
sign  that  he  was  going  to  speak,  raised  both  hands.  The 
motion  was  understood,  and  the  loud  cries  were  hushed 
which  now  and  then  burst  from  the  mighty  mass  of  people. 
Then  above  the  heads  of  the  thousands  there  who  gazed 
breathlessly  up,  sounded  the  loud,  powerful  voice  of  the 
king. 

"  I  will  give  my  dear  people  the  proof  that  my  fatherly 
heart  is  distrusted  without  reason.  I  will  journey  to-day 
with  the  queen  and  my  children  to  Paris,  and  there  take 
up  my  residence.  Return  thither,  my  children,  I  shall 
follow  you  in  a  few  hours  and  come  to  Paris!" 


TO   PARIS.  211 

Then,  while  the  people  were  breaking  out  into  a  cry  of 
joy,  and  were  throwing  arms,  caps,  and  clothes  up  into  the 
air,  Louis  stepped  back  from  the  balcony  into  the  hall. 

Instantly  there  arose  a  new  cry  below.  "  The  queen 
shall  show  herself!  We  want  to  see  the  queen!  The 
queen!  the  queen!  the  queen!" 

And  in  tones  louder,  and  more  commanding,  and  more 
terrible  every  moment,  the  summons  came  in  through  the 
balcony  door. 

The  queen  took  her  two  children  by  the  hand  and  ad- 
vanced a  step  or  two,  but  the  king  held  her  back. 

"Do  not  go,  Marie,"  he  cried,  with  trembling  voice  and 
anxious  look.  "  No,  do  not  go.  It  is  such  a  fearful  sight, 
this  raging  mass  at  one's  feet,  it  confuses  one's  senses. 
Do  not  go,  Marie!" 

But  the  cry  below  had  now  expanded  into  the  volume  of 
a  hurricane,  and  made  the  very  walls  of  the  palace  shake. 

"You  hear  plainly,  sire,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette; 
"  there  is  just  as  much  danger  whether  we  see  or  do  not 
see  it.  Let  me  do,  therefore,  what  you  have  done !  Come, 
children!" 

And  walking  between  the  two  little  ones,  the  queen 
stepped  out  upon  the  balcony  with  a  firm  step  and  raised 
head,  followed  by  the  king,  who  placed  himself  behind 
Marie  Antoinette,  as  if  he  were  a  sentinel  charged  with 
the  duty  of  protecting  her  life. 

But  the  appearance  of  the  whole  royal  family  did  not 
produce  the  effect  which  Louis  had,  perhaps,  anticipated. 
The  crowd  did  not  now  break  out  into  shouts  of  joy. 
They  cried  and  roared  and  howled :  "  The  queen  alone ! 
No  children!  We  want  no  one  but  the  queen!  Away 
with  the  children!" 

It  was  all  in  vain  that  Louis  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform ;  in  vain  that  he  raised  his  arms  as  if  command- 
ing silence.  The  sound  of  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  roar  of 
the  mob,  who,  with  their  clinched  fists,  their  pikes  and  other 
weapons,  their  horrid  cry,  so  frightened  the  dauphin  that 
he  could  not  restrain  his  tears. 

The  royal  family  drew  back  and  entered  the  apartment 
again,  where  they  were  received  by  the  pale,  trembling, 
speechless,  weeping  courtiers  and  servants, 


212  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

But  the  mob  below  were  not  pacified.  They  appeared 
as  though  they  were  determined  to  give  laws  to  the  king 
and  queen,  and  demand  obedience  from  them. 

"The  queen!  we  will  see  the  queen!"  was  the  cry  again 
and  again.  "  The  queen  shall  show  herself!" 

"Well,  be  it  so!"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  with  cool  de- 
cision, and,  pressing  through  the  courtiers,  who  wanted 
to  restrain  her,  and  even  impatiently  thrusting  back  the 
king,  who  implored  her  not  to  go,  she  stepped  out  upon 
the  balcony.  Alone,  without  any  one  to  accompany  her, 
and  having  only  the  protection  which  the  lion-tamer  has 
when  he  enters  the  cage  of  the  fierce  monsters — the  look  of 
the  eye  and  the  commanding  mien ! 

And  the  lion  appeared  to  be  subdued ;  his  fearful  roar 
suddenly  ceased,  and  in  astonishment  all  these  thousands 
gazed  up  at  the  queen,  the  daughter  of  the  Caesars,  stand- 
ing above  in  proud  composure,  her  arms  folded  upon  her 
breast,  and  looking  down  with  steady  eye  into  the  yawn- 
ing and  raging  abyss. 

The  people,  overcome  by  this  royal  composure,  broke 
into  loud  shouts  of  applause,  and,  during  the  continuance 
of  these  thousand-voiced  bravos,  the  queen,  with  a  proud 
smile  upon  her  lips,  stepped  back  from  the  balcony  into 
the  chamber. 

The  dauphin  flew  to  her  with  open  arms  and  climbed 
up  her  knee.  "Mamma  queen,  my  dear  mamma  queen," 
cried  he,  "  stay  with  me,  don't  go  out  again  to  these  dread- 
ful men,  I  am  afraid  of  them — oh,  I  am  afraid!" 

Marie  Antoinette  took  the  little  boy  in  her  arms,  and 
with  her  cold,  pale  lips  pressed  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead. 
For  one  instant  it  seemed  as  if  she  felt  herself  overcome  by 
the  fearful  scene  through  which  she  had  just  passed — as 
if  the  tears  which  were  confined  in  her  heart  would  force 
themselves  into  her  eyes.  But  Marie  Antoinette  overcame 
this  weakness  of  the  woman,  for  she  felt  that  at  this  hour 
she  could  only  be  a  queen. 

With  the  dauphin  in  her  arms,  and  pressing  him  closely 
to  her  heart,  she  advanced  to  the  king,  who,  in  order  not 
to  let  his  wife  see  the  tears  which  flooded  his  face,  had 
withdrawn  to  the  adjoining  apartment  and  was  leaning 
against  the  door. 


TO   PARIS.  213 

"Sire,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  entering  the  room,  and 
presenting  the  dauphin  to  him,  "  sire,  I  conjure  you  that, 
in  this  fearful  hour,  you  will  make  one  promise  to  me." 

"What  is  it,  Marie?"  asked  the  king,  "what  do  you 
desire?" 

"  Sire,  by  all  that  is  dear  to  you  and  me,"  continued  the 
queen,  "  by  the  welfare  and  safety  of  France,  by  your  own 
and  by  the  safety  of  this  dear  child,  your  successor,  I  con- 
jure you  to  promise  me  that,  if  we  ever  must  witness  such 
a  scene  of  horror  again,  and  if  you  have  the  means  to  es- 
cape it,  you  will  not  let  the  opportunity  pass."  * 

The  king,  deeply  moved  by  the  noble  and  glowing  face 
of  the  queen,  by  the  tones  of  her  voice,  and  by  her  whole 
expression,  turned  away.  He  wanted  to  speak,  but  could 
not;  tears  choked  his  utterance;  and,  as  if  he  were 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  he  pushed  the  queen  and  the 
dauphin  back  from  him,  hastened  through  the  room,  and 
disappeared  through  the  door  on  the  opposite  side. 

Marie  Antoinette  looked  with  a  long,  sad  face  after  him, 
and  then  returned  to  the  balcony-room.  A  shudder  passed 
through  her  soul,  and  a  dark,  dreadful  presentiment  made 
her  heart  for  an  instant  stop  beating.  She  remembered 
that  this  chamber  in  which  she  had  that  day  suffered  such 
immeasurable  pain — that  this  chamber,  which  now  echoed 
the  cries  of  a  mob  that  had  this  day  for  the  first  time  pre- 
scribed laws  to  a  queen,  had  been  the  dying-chamber  of 
Louis  XIV. f  A  dreadful  presentiment  told  her  that  this 
day  the  room  had  become  the  dying-chamber  of  royalty. 
Like  a  pale,  bloody  corpse,  the  Future  passed  before  her 
eyes,  and,  with  that  lightning  speed  which  accompanies 
moments  of  the  greatest  excitement,  all  the  old  dark  warn- 
ings came  back  to  her  which  she  had  previously  encoun- 
tered. She  thought  of  the  picture  of  the  slaughter  of  the 
babes  at  Bethlehem,  which  decorated  the  walls  of  the  room 
in  which  the  dauphin  passed  his  first  night  on  French  soil ; 
then  of  that  dreadful  prophecy  which  Count  de  Cagliostro 
had  made  to  her  on  her  journey  to  Paris,  and  of  the  scaf- 
fold which  he  showed  her.  She  thought  of  the  hurricane 
which  had  made  the  earth  shake  and  turn  up  trees  by  their 

*  The  very  words  of  the  queen.— See  Beauchesne,  "Louis  XVI.,  sa  Vie,"  etc., 
p  145. 

t  Historical.— See  Goncourt,  "Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  195. 


214  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

roots,  on  the  first  night  which  the  dauphin  had  passed  in 
Versailles.  She  thought  too  of  the  dreadful  misfortune 
which  on  the  next  day  happened  to  hundreds  of  men  at 
the  fireworks  in  Paris,  and  cost  them  their  lives.  She  re- 
called the  moment  at  the  coronation  when  the  king  caught 
up  the  crown  which  the  papal  nuncio  was  just  on  the 
point  of  placing  on  his  head,  and  said  at  the  same  time, 
"  It  pricks  me."  *  And  now  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  new, 
dreadful  reason  for  alarm,  that  the  scene  of  horror,  which 
she  had  just  passed  through,  should  take  place  in  the 
dying-chamber  of  that  king  to  whom  France  owed  her 
glory  and  her  greatness. 

"We  are  lost,  lost!"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "Noth- 
ing can  save  us.  There  is  the  scaffold !" 

With  a  silent  gesture,  and  a  gentle  inclination  of  her 
head,  the  queen  took  her  leave  of  all  present,  and  returned 
to  her  own  apartments,  which  were  now  guarded  by  La- 
fayette's soldiers,  and  which  now  conveyed  no  hint  of  the 
scene  of  horror  which  had  transpired  there  a  few  hours 
before. 

Some  hours  later  two  cannon  were  discharged  upon  the 
great  square  before  the  palace.  They  announced  to  the 
city  of  Versailles  that  the  king,  the  queen,  and  their  chil- 
dren, had  just  left  the  proud  palace — were  then  leaving  the 
solitary  residence  at  Versailles — never  to  return ! 

From  the  lofty  tower  of  the  church  of  St.  Louis,  in 
which  recently  the  opening  of  the  States-General  had  been 
celebrated,  the  bell  was  just  then  striking  the  first  hour 
after  mid-day,  when  the  carriage  drove'  out  of  the  great 
gate  through  which  the  royal  family  must  pass  on  its  way 
to  Paris.  A  row  of  other  carriages  formed  the  escort  of 
the  royal  equipage.  They  were  intended  for  the  members 
of  the  States-General.  For  as  soon  as  the  journey  of  the 
king  to  Paris  was  announced,  the  National  Assembly  de- 
creed that  it  regarded  itself  as  inseparably  connected  with 
the  person  of  the  king,  and  that  it  would  follow  him  to 
Paris.  A  deputation  had  instantly  repaired  to  the  palace, 
to  communicate  this  decree  to  the  king,  and  had  been  re- 
ceived by  Louis  with  cordial  expressions  of  thanks. 

Marie  Antoinette,  however,  had  received  the  tidings  of 

*  Historical. 


TO    PARIS.  215 

these  resolves  of  the  National  Assembly  with  a  suspicious 
smile,  and  an  angry  flash  darted  into  her  eyes. 

"  And  so,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Third  Estate  have  gained 
their  point!"  cried  she,  in  wrath.  "  They  alone  have  pro- 
duced this  revolt,  in  order  that  the  National  Assembly 
may  have  a  pretext  for  going  to  Paris.  Now,  they  have 
reached  their  goal !  Yet  do  not  tell  me  that  the  revolution 
is  ended  here.  On  the  contrary,  the  hydra  will  now  put 
forth  all  its  heads,  and  will  tear  us  in  pieces.  But,  very 
well !  I  would  rather  be  torn  to  pieces  by  them  than  bend 
before  them!" 

And,  with  a  lofty  air  and  calm  bearing,  Marie  Antoinette 
entered  the  great  coach  in  which  the  royal  family  was  to 
make  the  journey  to  Paris.  Near  her  sat  the  king,  between 
them  the  dauphin.  Opposite  to  them,  on  the  broad,  front 
seat,  were  their  daughter  Therese,  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
and  Madame  de  Tourzel,  governess  of  the  royal  children. 

Behind  them,  in  a  procession,  whose  end  could  not  be 
seen,  followed  an  artillery  train;  then  the  mob,  armed 
with  pikes,  and  other  weapons — men  covered  with  blood 
and  dust,  women  with  dishevelled  hair  and  torn  garments, 
the  most  of  them  drunken  with  wine,  exhausted  by  watch- 
ing during  the  night,  shouting  and  yelling,  and  singing 
low  songs,  or  mocking  the  royal  family  with  scornful 
words.  Behind  these  wild  masses  came  two  hundred  gardes 
du  corps  without  weapons,  hats,  and  shoulder-straps,  every 
one  escorted  by  two  grenadiers,  and  they  were  followed  by 
some  soldiers  of  the  Swiss  guard  and  the  Flanders  regi- 
ment. In  the  midst  of  this  train  rattled  loaded  cannon, 
each  one  accompanied  by  two  soldiers.  But  still  more 
fearful  than  the  retinue  of  the  royal  equipage  were  the 
heralds  who  preceded  it — heralds  consisting  of  the  most 
daring  and  defiant  of  these  men  and  women,  impatiently 
longing  for  the  moment  when  they  could  announce  to  the 
city  of  Paris  that  the  revolution  in  Versailles  had  humili- 
ated the  king,  and  given  the  people  victory.  They  carried 
with  them  the  bloody  tokens  of  this  victory,  the  heads  of 
Varicourt  and  Deshuttes,  the  faithful  Swiss  guards,  who 
had  died  in  the  service  of  their  king.  They  had  hoisted 
both  these  heads  upon  pikes,  which  two  men  of  the  mob 
carried  before  the  procession.  Between  them  strode,  with 


216  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

proud,  triumphant  mien,  a  gigantic  figure,  with  long, 
black  beard,  with  naked  blood-flecked  arms,  with  flashing 
'eyes,  his  face  and  hands  wet  with  the  blood  with  which  he 
had  imbued  himself,  and  in  his  right  hand  a  slaughter- 
knife  which  still  dripped  blood.  This  was  Jourdan,  who, 
from  his  cutting  off  the  heads  of  both  the  Swiss  guards, 
had  won  the  name  of  the  executioner — a  name  which  he 
understood  how  to  keep  during  the  whole  revolution.* 

Like  storm-birds,  desirous  to  be  the  first  to  announce  to 
Paris  the  triumph  of  the  populace,  and  impatient  of  the 
slow  progress  of  the  royal  train,  these  heralds  of  victory, 
bearing  their  bloody  banner,  hastened  on  in  advance  of  the 
procession  to  Paris.  In  Sevres  they  made  a  halt — not  to 
rest,  or  wait  for  the  oncoming  train — but  to  have  the  hair 
of  the  two  heads  dressed  byfriseurs,  in  order,  as  Jourdan 
announced  with  fiendish  laughter  to  the  yelling  mob,  that 
they  might  make  their-  entrance  into  the  city  as  fine 
gentlemen. 

While  before  them  and  behind  them  these  awful  cries, 
loud  singing  and  laughing  resounded,  within  the  carriage 
that  conveyed  the  royal  family  there  was  unbroken  silence. 
The  king  sat  leaning  back  in  the  corner,  with  his  eyes 
closed,  in  order  not  to  see  the  horrid  forms  which  from 
time  to  time  approached  the  window  of  the  carriage,  to 
stare  in  with  curious  looks,  or  with  mocking  laughter  and 
equivoques,  to  heap  misery  on  the  unfortunate  family. 

The  queen,  however,  sat  erect,  with  proud,  dignified 
bearing,  courageously  looking  the  horrors  of  the  day  in  the 
face,  and  not  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids,  nor  a  sigh,  betraying 
the  pain  that  tortured  her  soul. 

"  No,  better  die  than  grant  to  this  triumphing  rabble 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  what  I  suffer!  Better  sink  with  ex- 
haustion than  complain." 

Not  a  murmur,  not  a  sigh,  came  from  her  lips;  and  yet, 
when  the  dauphin,  after  four  hours  of  this  sad  journey, 
turned  with  a  supplicatory  expression  to  his  mother,and  said 
to  her  with  his  sweet  voice,  "  Mamma  queen,  I  am  hungry," 
the  proud  expression  withdrew  from  the  features  of  the 
queen,  and  two  great  tears  slowly  ran  down  over  her  cheeks. 

*  Jourdan,  the  executioner,  had,  until  that  time,  been  a  model  in  the 
Royal  Academy  of  Painting  and  Sculpture. 


TO   PARIS.  217 

At  last,  after  a  ride  of  eight  hours,  the  frightful  train 
reached  Paris.  Not  a  window  in  all  the  streets  through 
which  the  royal  procession  went  was  empty.  In  amaze- 
ment and  terror  the  people  of  the  middle  class  gazed  at 
this  hitherto  unseen  spectacle — the  King  and  the  Queen  of 
France  brought  in  triumph  to  the  capital  by  the  lowest 
people  in  the  city !  A  dumb  fear  took  possession  of  those 
who  hitherto  had  tried  to  ignore  the  revolution,  and  sup- 
posed that  every  thing  would  subside  again  into  the  old, 
wonted  forms.  Now,  no  one  could  entertain  this  hope 
longer;  now,  the  most  timid  must  confess  that  a  revolu- 
tion had  indeed  come,  and  that  people  must  accustom 
themselves  to  look  at  it  eye  to  eye. 

Slowly  the  train  moved  forward — slowly  down  the  quay 
which  extends  along  by  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries.  The 
loungers  who  were  in  the  garden  hurried  to  the  fence, 
which  then  bordered  the  park  on  the  side  of  the  quay,  in 
order  to  watch  this  frightful  procession  from  this  point: 
to  see  an  unbridled  populace  dash  in  pieces  the  prescrip- 
tive royalty  of  ages. 

Scorn  and  the  love  of  destruction  were  written  on  most 
of  the  faces  of  these  observers,  but  many  were  pale,  and 
many  quivered  with  anger  and  grief.  In  the  front  ranks 
of  the  spectators  stood  two  young  men,  one  of  them  in 
simple  civilian's  costume,  the  other  in  the  uniform  of  a 
sub-lieutenant.  The  face  of  the  young  officer  was  pale, 
but  it  lightened  up  with  rare  energy ;  and  with  his  noble, 
antique  profile,  and  flaming  eyes,  it  enchanted  every  look, 
and  fixed  the  attention  of  every  one  who  observed  him. 

As  the  howling,  roaring  mob  passed  him,  the  young 
officer  turned  to  his  companion  with  an  expression  of  fiery 
indignation.  "0  God,"  he  cried,  "how  is  this  possible? 
Has  the  king  no  cannon  to  destroy  this  canaille?"  * 

"My  friend,"  answered  the  young  man,  smiling,  "re- 
member the  words  of  our  great  poet  Corneille :  'The  people 
give  the  king  his  purple  and  take  it  back  when  they 
please.  The  beggar,  king  only  by  the  people's  grace, 
simply  gives  back  his  purple  to  the  people. '  " 

"  Ah!"  cried  the  young  lieutenant,  smiling,  "  what  once 
has  been  received  should  be  firmly  held.  I,  at  least,  if  I 

*His  own  words.— See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,p.  85. 


218  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

had  once  received  the  purple  by  the  people's  grace,  would 
not  give  it  back.  But  come,  let  us  go  on,  it  angers  me  to 
see  this  canaille,  upon  which  you  bestow  the  fine  name  of  'the 
people. ' '  He  hastily  grasped  the  arm  of  his  friend,  and 
turned  to  a  more  solitary  part  of  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries. 

This  young  sub-lieutenant,  who  saw  with  such  indig- 
nation this  revolutionary  procession  pass  him,  and  whom 
destiny  had  appointed  one  day  to  bring  this  revolution  to 
an  end — this  young  lieutenant's  name  was  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. 

The  young  man  who  walked  at  his  side,  and  whom,  too, 
destiny  had  appointed  to  work  a  revolution,  although  only 
in  the  theatrical  world,  to  recreate  the  drama — this  young* 
man's  name  was  Talma. 


CHAPTEK    XV. 

MAMMA    QUEEN". 

"  EVERY  thing  passes  over,  every  thing  has  an  end ;  one 
must  only  have  courage  and  think  of  that,"  said  Marie 
Antoinette,  with  a  gentle  smile,  as  on  the  morning  after 
her  arrival  in  Paris,  she  had  risen  from  her  bed  and  drunk 
her  chocolate  in  the  improvised  sitting-room.  "  Here  we 
are  installed  in  the  Tuileries,  and  have  slept,  while  we  yes- 
terday were  thinking  we  were  lost,  and  that  only  death 
could  give  us  rest  and  peace  again." 

"It  was  a  fearful  day,"  said  Madame  de  Campan,  with 
a  sigh,  "  but  your  majesty  went  through  it  like  a  heroine." 

"Ah,  Campan,"  said  the  queen,  sadly,  "I  have  not  the 
ambition  to  want  to  be  a  heroine,  and  I  should  be  very 
thankful  if  it  were  allowed  me  from  this  time  on  to  be  a 
wife  and  mother,  if  it  is  no  longer  allowed  me  to  be  a  queen. " 

At  this  instant  the  door  opened ;  the  little  dauphin,  fol- 
lowed by  his  teacher,  the  Abbe  Davout,  ran  in  and  flew 
with  extended  arms  to  Marie  Antoinette. 

"Oh,  mamma  queen!"  cried  he,  with  winning  voice, 
"let  us  go  back  again  to  our  beautiful  palace;  it  is  dread- 
ful here  in  this  great,  dark  house." 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  219 

"Hush,  my  child,  hush!"  said  the  queen,  pressing  the 
boy  close  to  her.  "  You  must  not  say  so ;  you  must  accus- 
tom yourself  to  be  contented  everywhere." 

"  Mamma  queen,"  whispered  the  child,  tenderly  nestling 
close  to  his  mother,  "  it  is  true  it  is  dreadful  here,  but  I 
will  always  say  it  so  low  that  nobody  except  you  can  hear. 
But  tell  me,  wh^  owns  this  hateful  house?  And  why  do 
we  want  to  stay  here,  when  we  have  such  a  fine  palace  and 
a  beautiful  garden  in  Versailles?" 

"  My  son,"  answered  the  queen  with  a  sigh,  "  this  house 
belongs  to  us,  and  it  is  a  beautiful  and  famous  palace. 
You  ought  not  to  say  that  it  does  not  please  you,  for  your 
renowned  great-grandfather,  the  great  Louis  XIV.,  lived 
here,  and  made  this  palace  celebrated  all  over  Europe." 

"Yet  I  wish  that  we  were  away  from  here,"  whispered 
the  dauphin,  casting  his  large  blue  eyes  with  a  prolonged 
and  timid  glance  through  the  wide,  desolate  room,  which 
was  decorated  sparingly  with  old-fashioned,  faded  furniture. 

"I  wish  so,  too,"  sighed  Marie  Antoinette,  to  herself; 
but  softly  as  she  had  spoken  the  words,  the  sensitive  ear  of 
the  child  had  caught  them. 

"  You,  too,  want  to  go?"  asked  Louis  Charles,  in  amaze- 
ment. "  Are  you  not  queen  now,  and  can  you  not  do  what 
you  want  to?" 

The  queen,  pierced  to  the  very  heart  by  the  innocent 
question  of  the  child,  burst  into  tears. 

"My  prince,"  said  the  Abbe  Davout,  turning  to  the 
dauphin,  "you  see  that  you  trouble  the  queen,  and  her 
majesty  needs  rest.  Come,  we  will  take  a  walk." 

But  Marie  Antoinette  put  both  her  arms  around  the 
child  and  pressed  its  head  with  its  light  locks  to  her  breast. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no,  he  does  not  trouble  me.  Let 
me  weep.  Tears  do  me  good.  One  is  only  unfortunate 
when  she  can  no  longer  weep;  when — but  what  is  that?" 
she  eagerly  asked,  rising  from  her  easy-chair.  "What 
does  that  noise  mean?" 

And  in  very  fact  in  the  street  there  were  loud  shouting 
and  crying,  arid  intermingled  curses  and  threats. 

"  Mamma,"  cried  the  dauphin,  nestling  close  up  to  the 
queen,  "  is  to-day  going  to  be  just  like  yesterday?"  * 

*  The  very  words  of  the  dauphin.— See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i. 
15 


220  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

The  door  was  hastily  opened,  and  the  king  entered. 

"Sire,"  asked  Marie,  eagerly  advancing  toward  him, 
"  are  they  going  to  renew  the  dreadful  scenes  of  yesterday?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Marie,  they  are  going  to  bring  to 
their  reckoning  those  who  occasioned  the  scenes  of  yester- 
day," answered  the  king.  "A  deputation  from  the  Court 
of  Chatelet  have  come  to  the  Tuileries,  and  desire  of  me  an 
authorization  to  bring  to  trial  those  who  are  guilty,  and  of 
you  any  information  which  you  can  give  about  what  has 
taken  place.  The  mob  have  accompanied  the  deputation 
hither,  and  hence  arise  these  cries.  I  am  come  to  ask  you, 
Marie,  to  receive  the  deputation  of  Chatelet." 

"  As  if  there  were  any  choice  left  us  to  refuse  to  see 
them,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette,  sighing.  "The  popu- 
lace who  are  howling  and  crying  without  are  now  the  master 
of  the  men  who  come  to  us  with  a  sneer,  and  ask  us  whether 
we  will  grant  them  an  audience.  We  must  submit!" 

The  king  did  not  answer,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  antechamber.  "  Let  them  en- 
ter," he  said  to  the  chamberlains  there. 

The  two  folding  doors  were  now  thrown  open,  and  the 
loud  voice  of  an  officer  announced,  "  The  honorable  judges 
of  Chatelet!" 

Slowly,  with  respectful  mien  and  bowed  head,  the  gen- 
tlemen, arrayed  in  their  long  black  robes,  entered  the 
room,  and  remained  humbly  standing  near  the  door. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  advanced  a  few  steps.  Not  a 
trace  of  grief  and  disquiet  was  longer  to  be  seen  in  her 
face.  Her  figure  was  erect,  her  glance  was  proud  and  full 
of  fire,  and  the  expression  of  her  countenance  noble  and 
majestic.  She  was  still  the  queen,  though  not  surrounded 
by  the  solemn  pomp  which  attended  the  public  audiences 
at  Versailles.  She  did  not  stand  on  the  purple- carpeted 
step  of  the  throne,  no  gold-embroidered  canopy  arched  over 
her,  no  crowd  of  brilliant  courtiers  surrounded  her,  only 
her  husband  stood  near  her;  her  son  clung  to  her  side,  and 
his  teacher,  the  Abbe  Davout,  timidly  withdrew  into  the 
background.  These  formed  all  her  suite.  But  Marie  An- 
toinette did  not  need  external  pomp  to  be  a  queen ;  she  was 
so  in  her  bearing,  in  every  look,  in  every  gesture.  With 
commanding  dignity  she  allowed  the  deputation  to  ap- 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  221 

proach  her,  and  to  speak  with  her.  She  listened  with  calm 
attention  to  the  words  of  the  speaker,  who,  in  the  name  of 
the  court,  gave  utterance  to  the  deep  horror  with  which 
the  treasonable  actions  of  the  day  before  had  filled  him. 
He  then  humbly  begged  the  queen  to  give  such  names  of 
the  rioters  as  might  be  known  to  her,  that  they  might  be 
arrested,  but  Marie  Antoinette  interrupted  him  in  his 
address. 

"No,  sir,"  she  cried,  "no,  never  will  I  be  an  informer 
against  the  subjects  of  the  king."  * 

The  speaker  bowed  respectfully.  "  Then  let  me  at  least 
beg  of  you,  in  the  name  of  the  High-Court  of  the  Chatelet, 
to  give  us  your  order  to  bring  the  guilty  parties  to  trial,  for 
without  such  a  charge  we  cannot  prosecute  the  criminals 
who  have  been  engaged  in  these  acts." 

"Nor  do  I  wish  you  to  bring  any  one  to  trial,"  cried  the 
queen,  with  dignity.  "  I  have  seen  all,  known  all,  and 
forgotten  all!  Go,  gentlemen,  go!  My  heart  knows  no 
vengeance;  it  has  forgiven  all  those  who  have  wounded 
me.  Go!"f 

With  a  commanding  gesture  of  her  hand,  and  a  gentle 
nod  of  her  head,  she  dismissed  the  deputation,  who  silently 
withdrew. 

"Marie,"  said  the  king,  grasping  the  hand  of  his  wife 
with  unwonted  eagerness,  and  pressing  it  tenderly  to  his 
lips,  "  Marie,  I  thank  you  in  the  name  of  all  my  subjects. 
You  have  acted  this  hour  not  only  as  a  queen,  but  as  the 
mother  of  my  people." 

"Ah,  sir,"  replied  the  queen,  with  a  sad  smile,  "only 
that  the  children  will  not  believe  in  the  love  of  their 
mother — only  that  your  subjects  do  not  consider  me  their 
mother,  but  their  enemy." 

"They  have  been  misguided,"  said  the  king.  "Evil- 
minded  men  have  deceived  them,  but  I  hope  we  shall  suc- 
ceed in  bringing  the  people  back  from  their  error." 

"Sire,"  sighed  Marie  Antoinette,  "I  hope  for  nothing 
more;  but,"  added  she,  with  still  firmer  voice,  "  I  also  fear 
nothing  more.  The  worst  may  break  over  me — it  shall 
find  me  armed !" 

*  Marie  Antoinette's  own  words.— See  Goncourt,  "Marie  Antoinette,"  pp.  196, 
197. 
tlbid. 


222  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

The  side-door  now  opened,  and  Madame  de  Campan 
entered. 

"Your  majesty,"  said  she,  bowing  low,  "a  great  number 
of  ladies  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  are  in  the  small 
reception-room.  They  wish  to  testify  their  devotion  to 
your  majesty." 

"I  will  receive  them  at  once,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette, 
with  an  almost  joyful  tone.  "  Ah,  only  see,  husband,  the 
consolations  which  misfortune  brings.  These  ladies  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  formerly  cut  me;  they  could  not 
forget  that  I  was  an  Austrian.  To-day  they  feel  that  I  am 
the  Queen  of  France,  and  that  I  belong  to  them.  Pardon 
me,  sire,  for  leaving  you." 

She  hastened  away  with  a  rapid  step.  The  king  looked 
after  her  with  an  expression  of  pain.  "  Poor  queen,"  he 
whispered  to  himself,  "  how  much  she  is  misjudged,  how 
wrongly  she  is  calumniated!  And  I  cannot  change  it, 
and  must  let  it  be." 

He  sank  with  a  deep  sigh,  which  seemed  much  like  a 
groan,  into  an  arm-chair,  and  was  lost  in  painful  recollec- 
tions. A  gentle  touch  on  his  hand,  which  rested  on  the 
side-arm  of  the  chair,  restored  him  to  consciousness.  Be- 
fore him  stood  the  dauphin,  and  looked  gravely  and 
thoughtfully  out  of  his  large  blue  eyes  up  into  his  father's 
face. 

"  Ah,  is  it  you,  my  little  Louis  Charles?"  said  the  king, 
nodding  to  him.  "  What  do  you  want  of  me,  my  child?" 

"Papa  king,"  answered  the  boy,  timidly,  "I  should 
like  to  ask  you  something — something  really  serious!" 

"Something  really  serious!"  replied  the  king.  "Well, 
what  is  it?  Let  me  hear!" 

"  Sire,"  replied  the  dauphin,  with  a  weighty  and  thought- 
ful air,  "  sire,  Madame  de  Tourzel  has  always  told  me  that 
I  must  love  the  people  of  France  very  much,  and  treat 
every  one  very  friendly,  because  the  people  of  France  love 
my  papa  and  my  mamma  so  much,  and  I  ought  to  be  very 
grateful  for  it.  How  comes  it  then,  sire,  that  the  French 
people  are  now  so  bad  to  you,  and  that  they  do  not  love 
mamma  any  longer?  What  have  you  both  done  to  make 
the  people  so  angry,  because  I  have  been  told  that  the  peo- 
ple are  subject  to  your  majesty,  and  that  they  owe  you 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  223 

obedience  and  respect?  But  they  were  not  obedient  yes- 
terday, and  not  at  all  respectful,  your  subjects,  were  they? 
How  is  this,  papa?" 

The  king  drew  the  little  prince  to  his  knee,  and  put  his 
arm  around  the  slight  form  of  the  boy.  "  I  will  explain  it 
to  you,  my  son,"  he  said,  "and  listen  carefully  to  what  I 
say  to  you." 

"  I  will,  sire,"  answered  the  boy  eagerly.  "  I  at  least  am 
an  obedient  subject  of  my  king,  for  the  Abbe  Davout  has 
told  me  that  I  am  nothing  but  a  subject  of  your  majesty, 
and  that,  as  a  son  and  a  subject,  I  must  give  a  good  ex- 
ample to  the  French  people,  how  to  love  and  obey  the  king. 
And  I  love  you  very  much,  papa,  and  I  am  just  as  obedient 
as  I  can  be.  But  it  seems  as  though  my  good  example  had 
made  no  difference  with  the  other  subjects.  How  comes 
that  about,  papa  king?" 

"My  son,"  answered  Louis,  "that  comes  because  there 
are  bad  men  who  have  told  the  people  that  I  do  not  love 
them.  We  have  had  to  have  great  wars,  and  wars  cost  a 
deal  of  money.  And  so  I  asked  money  of  .ny  people — just 
as  my  ancestors  always  did." 

"  But,  papa,"  cried  the  dauphin,  "why  did  you  do  that? 
Why  did  you  not  take  my  purse,  and  pay  out  of  that? 
You  know  that  I  receive  every  day  my  purse  all  filled  with 
new  francs,  and — but  then,"  he  interrupted  himself,  "  there 
would  be  nothing  left  for  the  poor  children,  to  whom  I 
always  give  money  on  my  walks.  And,  oh !  there  are  so 
many  poor  children,  so  very  many,  that  my  purse  is  empty 
every  day,  when  I  return  from  my  walk,  and  yet  I  give  to 
each  child  only  one  poor  franc-piece.  So  your  people  have 
money,  more  money  than  you  yourself?" 

"  My  child,  kings  receive  all  that  they  have  from  their 
people,  but  they  give  it  all  back  to  the  people  again ;  the 
king  is  the  one  appointed  by  God  to  govern  his  people,  and 
the  people  owe  respect  and  obedience  to  the  king,  and  have 
to  pay  taxes  to  him.  And  so,  if  he  needs  money,  he  is 
justified  in  asking  his  subjects  for  it,  and  so  does  what  is 
called  'laying  taxes'  upon  them.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

"  Oh!  yes,  papa,"  cried  the  child,  who  had  listened  with 
open  eyes  and  breathless  attention,  "  I  understand  all  very 
well.  But  I  don't  like  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  a  man 


224  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

is  king,  every  thing  belongs  to  him,  and  that  the  king 
ought  to  have  all  the  money  so  as  to  give  it  to  the  people. 
They  ought  to  ask  him,  and  not  he  them!" 

"In  former  and  more  happy  times  it  was  so,"  said  the 
king,  with  a  sigh.  "  But  many  kings  have  misused  their 
power  and  authority,  and  now  the  king  cannot  pay  out 
money  unless  the  people  understand  all  about  it  and 
consent!" 

"  Have  you  given  out  money,  papa,  without  asking  the 
people's  leave?  Was  that  the  reason  they  came  to  Ver- 
sailles yesterday,  and  were  so  wicked,  ah!  so  very  wicked? 
For  those  bad  men — they  were  the  people,  were  they  not?" 

"No,  my  son,"  answered  Louis,  "I  hope  they  were  not 
the  people.  The  people  cannot  come  to  me  in  such  great 
masses;  they  must  have  their  representatives.  The  repre- 
sentatives of  the  people  I  have  myself  called  to  me;  they 
are  the  States-General,  which  I  assembled  at  Versailles.  I 
asked  of  them  money  for  the  outlays  which  I  had  to  make 
for  the  people,  but  they  asked  things  of  me  that  I  could 
not  grant,  either  for  my  own  sake,  or  for  yours,  my  son, 
who  are  some  day  to  be  my  successor.  Then  wicked  men 
came  and  stirred  up  the  people,  and  told  them  that  I  did 
not  love  the  people  any  more,  and  that  I  wanted  to  trouble 
my  subjects.  And  the  poor  people  have  believed  what 
these  evil  advisers  and  slanderers  have  told  them,  and  have 
been  led  astray  into  making  the  riot  against  me.  But 
every  thing  will  come  out  right  again,  and  my  subjects 
will  see  that  I  love  them,  and  am  ready  to  share  every  thing 
with  them.  That  is  the  reason  I  have  come  to  Paris,  to 
live  here  among  my  people.  It  is  certainly  not  so  pleasant 
as  in  Versailles;  our  rooms  are  not  so  fine  and  convenient, 
and  we  do  not  have  the  beautiful  gardens  here  that  we  had 
there.  But  we  must  learn  to  be  contented  here,  and  put 
up  with  what  we  have.  We  must  remember  that  there  is 
no  one  in  Paris  better  than  we,  and  that  the  Parisians  must 
acknowledge  that  the  king  loves  them,  for  he  has  given  up 
his  beautiful  Versailles,  in  order  to  live  with  them,  and 
share  all  their  need,  and  all  the  disagreeable  things  which 
they  have  to  bear." 

"  Papa  king,  I  have  understood  every  thing,  and  I  am 
very  much  ashamed  that  I  have  complained  before.  I 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  225 

promise  you,  sire,"  he  continued,  with  earnest  mien,  and 
laying  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  "  yes,  sire,  1  promise  you, 
that  I  will  take  pains  to  give  the  people  a  good  example, 
and  to  be  really  good  and  kind.  I  will  never  complain 
again  that  we  are  living  in  Paris,  and  I  will  take  pains  to 
be  happy  and  contented  here." 

And  the  dauphin  kept  his  word.  He  took  pains  to  be 
contented ;  he  said  not  another  word  about  the  old  pleasant 
life  at  Versailles,  but  appeared  to  have  forgotten  all  about 
ever  having  been  anywhere  but  in  this  great,  desolate  pal- 
ace, with  its  halls  filled  with  faded  tapestry ;  stately,  solemn 
furniture,  their  golden  adornments  having  grown  dim,  and 
their  upholstery  hard ;  he  seemed  never  to  have  known  any 
garden  but  this,  only  one  little  corner  of  which  was  set  apart 
for  the  royal  family,  and  through  the  iron  gate  of  which 
threatening  words  were  often  heard,  and  spiteful  faces  seen. 

One  day,  when  the  dauphin  heard  such  words,  and  saw 
such  faces  beyond  the  paling,  he  shrank  back,  and  ran  to 
his  mother,  earnestly  imploring  her  with  trembling  voice 
to  leave  the  garden,  and  go  into  the  palace.  But  Marie 
Antoinette  led  him  farther  into  the  garden,  instead  of 
complying  with  his  wish.  In  the  little  pavilion  which 
stood  at  the  corner  of  the  enclosure  on  the  side  of  the  quay, 
she  sat  down,  and  lifting  her  boy  up  in  her  arms,  set  him 
before  her  on  the  marble  table,  wiped  away  his  tears  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  tenderly  implored  him  not  to  weep 
or  feel  badly  any  more. 

"  If  you  weep,  my  child,"  she  said,  sadly,  as  the  dauphin 
could  not  control  his  tears,  "  if  you  weep,  I  shall  have  no 
courage  left,  and  it  will  be  as  dark  and  dreary  to  me  as  if 
the  sun  had  gone  down.  If  you  weep,  I  should  want  to 
weep  with  you;  and  you  see,  my  son,  that  it  would  not  be 
becoming  for  a  queen  to  weep.  The  wicked  people,  who 
want  to  hurt  our  feelings,  they  find  pleasure  in  it,  and 
therefore  we  must  be  altogether  too  proud  to  let  them  see 
what  we  suffer.  I  have  this  pride,  but  when  I  see  you 
suffer  it  takes  away  all  my  strength.  You  remember  our 
ride  from  Versailles  here,  my  son?  How  the  bad  men  who 
surrounded  us,  mocked  at  me  and  said  foul  things  to  me ! 
I  was  cold  and  calm,  but  I  could  not  help  weeping,  my 
child,  when  you  complained  of  being  hungry." 


226  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"Mamma,"  cried  the  child,  with  flashing  eyes,  "I  will 
never  complain  again,  and  the  bad  men  shall  never  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  me  weep. " 

"  But  good  men,  my  child,  you  must  always  treat  kindly, 
and  behave  very  prettily  to  them." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  answered  the  dauphin,  thoughtfully. 
" But,  mamma  queen,  tell  me  who  the  good  men  are!" 

"  You  must  believe,  Louis,  that  all  men  are  good,  and 
therefore  you  must  be  kind  to  all.  If  then  they  despise 
your  goodness  or  friendliness,  and  cast  it  from  them,  it  will 
not  be  your  fault,  and  our  heavenly  Father  and  your  par- 
ents will  be  pleased  with  you." 

"But,  mamma,"  cried  the  prince,  and  a  shadow  passed 
over  his  pure,  beautiful  child's  face,  "  but,  mamma,  I  can- 
not see  that  all  men  are  good.  When  they  were  abusing 
us,  and  cursing  us,  and  speaking  bad  words  at  us  in  the 
carriage,  and  were  talking  so  angrily  at  you,  dear  mamma, 
the  men  were  not  good,  and  I  never  could  treat  them 
friendly  if  they  should  come  again." 

"  They  will  not  come  again,  Louis.  No,  we  will  hope 
that  the  bad  men  will  not  come  again,  and  that  those  who 
come  to  see  us  here  are  good  men ;  so  be  very  kind  and 
polite  to  everybody,  that  all  may  love  you,  and  see  that 
their  future  king  is  good  and  polite,  even  while  a  child." 

"Good?"  cried  the  boy,  spiritedly.  "I  will  be  good 
and  polite  to  everybody,  that  you  may  be  satisfied  with  me. 
Yes,  just  for  that  will  I  be  so." 

Marie  Antoinette  pressed  the  pretty  boy  to  herself,  and 
kissed  his  lips.  Just  then  an  officer  entered  and  an- 
nounced General  Lafayette  and  Bailly,  the  mayor  of 
Paris. 

"Mamma,"  whispered  the  prince,  as  the  two  gentlemen 
entered — "  mamma,  that  is  the  general  that  was  at  Ver- 
sailles, then.  I  can  never  be  kind  to  him,  for  he  belongs 
to  the  bad  men." 

"Hush!  my  child — hush!"  whispered  the  queen.  "For 
God's  sake,  do  not  let  anybody  hear  that.  No,  no,  G:neral 
Lafayette  does  not  belong  to  our  enemies,  he  means  well 
toward  us.  Treat  him  kindly,  very  kindly,  my  child." 

And  Marie  Antoinette  took  her  son  by  the  hand,  and, 
with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  went  to  meet  the  two  gentle- 


MAMMA   QUEEN.  227 

men,  in  order  to  inquire  the  reason  for  their  appearing  at 
this  unwonted  time  and  place. 

"  Madame,"  said  General  Lafayette,  "  I  have  come  to  ask 
your  majesty  whether  you  will  not  have  the  goodness  to 
let  me  know  the  hours  in  which  you  may  wish  to  visit  the 
park  and  the  garden,  that  I  may  make  my  arrangements 
accordingly." 

"That  means,  general,"  cried  the  queen,  "that  it  is  not 
to  depend  upon  my  free-will  when  and  at  what  times  I  am 
to  walk  in  the  park,  but  it  will  be  allowed  me  only  at  cer- 
tain hours,  just  as  prisoners  are  allowed  to  take  their 
walks  at  certain  hours." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madaine,"  said  the  general,  with 
great  respect;  "your  majesty  will  graciously  believe,  that 
to  me,  the  peace  and  security  of  your  exalted  person  is. 
sacred  above  every  thing,  and  that  I  regard  it  as  my  first 
duty  to  protect  you  against  every  insult,  and  every  thing 
that  may  be  disagreeable." 

"And  so  it  has  come  to  that,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette, 
angrily.  "  The  Queen  of  France  must  be  protected  against 
insults  and  disagreeable  things.  She  is  not  to  go  out  when 
she  will  into  her  park,  because  she  has  to  fear  that,  if  Gen- 
eral Lafayette  has  not  previously  made  his  special  prepa- 
rations, the  people  will  insult  her.  But  if  this  is  so,  sir, 
why  do  you  not  close  the  gates  of  the  park?  It  is  royal 
property,  and  it  probably  will  be  allowed  to  the  king  to 
defend  his  private  property  from  the  brutality  of  the  rabble. 
I  will  myself,  general,  see  to  it  that  I  be  protected  from 
insults,  and  that,  at  any  time  when  it  pleases  me,  I  may  go 
into  the  park  and  the  inner  gardens.  1  will  ask  his  majesty 
the  king  to  allow  the  gates  of  the  park  and  the  promenade 
on  the  quay  to  be  closed.  That  will  close  every  thing,  and 
we  shall  at  least  gain  the  freedom  thereby  of  being  able  to 
take  walks  at  any  time,  without  first  sending  information 
to  General  Lafayette." 

"Madame,  I  expected  that  you  would  answer  me  so," 
said  Lafayette,  sadly,  "  and  I  have  therefore  brought  M.  de 
Bailly  with  me,  that  he  might  join  me  in  supplicating 
your  majesty  to  graciously  abstain  from  talcing  measures  of 
violence,  and  not  to  farther  stir  up  the  feelings  of  the  peo- 
ple, already  so  exasperated. " 


228  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"And  so  you  are  of  this  opinion,  sir?"  asked  Marie  An- 
toinette, turning  to  M.  Bailly.  "  You,  too,  regard  it  as  a 
compulsory  measure,  for  the  king  to  claim  his  own  right, 
and  to  keep  out  of  his  property  those  who  insult  him." 

"  Your  majesty,  the  king  is,  unfortunately,  not  free  to 
make  use  of  this  right,  as  you  call  it." 

"  You  will  not  say,  sir,  that  if  it  pleases  the  king  not  to 
allow  evil-disposed  persons  to  enter  the  park  of  the  Tuile- 
ries,  he  has  not  the  right  to  close  the  gates?" 

"  Madame,  I  must  indeed  take  the  privilege  of  saying 
so,"  answered  M.  de  Bailly,  with  a  gentle  obeisance. 
"  King  Henry  IV.  gave  the  Parisians  the  perpetual  privilege 
of  having  the  park  of  the  Tuileries  open  to  them  always, 
and  free  to  be  used  in  their  walks.  The  palace  of  the 
Tuileries  was,  as  your  majesty  knows,  originally  built  by 
Queen  Catherine  de  Medicis,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, for  the  home  of  her  widowhood.  All  sorts  of  stories 
were  then  current  about  the  uncanny  things  which  were 
said  to  occur  in  the  park  of  the  Tuileries.  They  told  about 
laboratories  in  which  Queen  Catherine  prepared  her  poi- 
sons; of  a  pavilion  in  which  there  was  a  martyr's  chamber; 
of  subterranean  cells  for  those  who  had  been  buried  alive ; 
and  all  these  dreadful  stories  made  such  an  impression  that 
no  one  dared  approach  this  place  of  horrors  after  sunset. 
But  when  Queen  Catherine  had  left  Paris,  and  King  Henry 
IV.  resided  in  the  Louvre,  he  had  this  dreaded  Tuileries 
garden,  with  all  its  horrors,  opened  to  the  Parisians,  and 
out  of  the  queen's  garden  he  made  one  for  the  people,  in 
order  that  the  curse  which  rested  upon  it  might  be  changed 
into  a  blessing." 

"  And  now  you  suppose,  Mr.  Mayor,  that  it  would  change 
the  blessing  into  a  curse  again,  if  we  should  want  to  close 
the  gates  that  Henry  IV.  opened?" 

"  I  do  fear  it,  madame,  and  therefore  venture  to  ask  that 
the  right  to  enter  the  Tuileries  gardens  may  not  be  taken 
from  the  people,  nor  their  enjoyment  interfered  with." 

"  Not  the  people's  enjoyment,  only  ours,  is  to  be  inter- 
fered with,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  bitterly.  "  They  are 
doubtless  right  who  call  the  people  now  the  real  king  of 
France,  but  they  forget  that  this  new  king  h'as  usurped  the 
throne  only  by  treachery,  rebellion,  and  murder,  and  that 


MAMMA   QUEEN.  229 

the  wrath  of  God  and  the  justice  of  man  will  one  day  hurl 
him  down  into  the  dust  at  our  feet.  In  this  day  I  hope, 
and  until  then  I  will  bear  in  patience  and  with  unshaken 
courage  what  fate  may  lay  upon  me.  The  wickedness  and 
brutality  of  men  shall  at  least  not  intimidate  me,  and  fear 
shall  not  humiliate  me  to  the  state  of  a  prisoner  who  takes 
her  walks  under  the  protection  of  M.  de  Lafayette,  the 
general  of  the  people,  at  appointed  hours." 

"  Your  majesty,"  cried  Lafayette,  turning  pale. 

"  What  is  your  pleasure?"  interrupted  the  queen,  with  a 
proud  movement  of  her  head.  "  You  were  a  gentleman,  and 
knew  the  customs  and  mode  of  our  court  before  you  went 
to  America.  Has  the  want  of  manners  there  so  disturbed 
your  memory  that  you  do  not  know  that  it  is  not  permitted 
to  speak  in  the  presence  of  the  queen  without  being  asked 
or  permitted  by  her  to  do  so?" 

"General,"  cried  the  dauphin,  at  this  instant,  with  loud, 
eager  voice,  running  forward  to  Lafayette,  and  extending 
to  him  his  little  hand — "  general,  I  should  like  to  salute  you. 
Mamma  told  me  that  I  must  be  kind  to  all  those  who  are 
good  to  us  and  love  us,  and  just  as  you  were  coming  in 
with  this  gentleman,  mamma  told  me  that  General  Lafay- 
ette does  not  belong  to  our  enemies,  but  means  well  to  us. 
Let  me,  therefore,  greet  you  kindly  and  give  you  my 
hand."  And  while  saying  so  and  smiling  kindly  at  the 
general,  he  raised  his  great  blue  eyes  to  the  face  of  his 
mother  an  instant  with  a  supplicatory  expression. 

Lafayette  took  the  extended  hand  of  the  prince,  and  a 
flush  of  deep  emotion  passed  over  his  face  that  was  just  be- 
fore kindling  with  anger.  As  if  touched  with  reverence 
and  astonishment,  he  bent  his  knee  before  this  child,  whose 
countenance  beamed  with  innocence,  love,  and  goodness, 
and  pressed  to  his  lips  the  little  hand  that  rested  in  his 
own. 

"My  prince,"  said  he,  deeply  moved,  "you  have  just 
spoken  to  me  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel,  and  I  swear  to 
you,  and  to  your  exalted  royal  mother,  that  I  will  never 
forget  this  moment ;  that  I  will  remember  it  so  long  as  I 
live.  The  kiss  which  I  have  impressed  upon  the  hand  of 
my  future  king  is  at  once  the  seal  of  the  solemn  vow,  and 
the  oath  of  unchangeable  fidelity  and  devotion  which  I  con- 


230  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

secrate  to  my  king  and  to  the  whole  royal  family,  and  in 
which  nothing  shall  make  me  waver;  nothing,  not  even 
the  anger  and  the  want  of  favor  of  my  exalted  queen. 
Dauphin  of  France,  you  have  to-day  gained  a  soldier  for 
your  throne  who  is  prepared  to  shed  his  last  drop  of  blood 
for  you  and  your  house,  and  on  whose  fidelity  and  devotion 
you  may  continually  count." 

With  tears  in  his  eyes,  his  brave,  noble  face  quivering 
with  emotion,  Lafayette  looked  at  the  child  that  with 
cheeks  all  aglow  and  with  a  pleasant  smile  was  gazing  with 
great,  thoughtful  child's  eyes  up  to  the  strong  man,  who 
placed  himself  so  humbly  and  devotedly  at  his  feet.  Be- 
hind him  stood  M.  de  Bailly,  with  bended  head  and  folded 
hands,  listening  with  solemn  thoughtfulness  to  the  words 
of  the  general,  upon  whose  strong  shoulders  the  fate  of  the 
monarchy  rested,  and  who,  at  this  time,  was  the  mightiest 
and  most  conspicuous  man  in  France,  because  the  National 
Guard  of  Paris  was  still  obedient  to  him,  and  followed  his 
commands. 

Close  by  the  dauphin  stood  the  queen,  in  her  old,  proud 
attitude,  but  upon  her  face  a  striking  change  had  taken 
place.  The  expression  of  anger  and  suspicion  which  it  had 
before  displayed  had  not  completely  disappeared.  The 
cloud  which  had  gathered  upon  her  lofty  forehead  was  dis- 
sipated, and  her  face  shone  out  bright  and  clear.  The 
large,  grayish-blue  eyes,  which  before  had  shot  angry  darts, 
now  glowed  with  mild  fire,  and  around  her  lips  played  an 
instant  that  fair,  pleasant  smile  which,  in  her  happier 
days,  had  often  moved  the  favorites  of  the  queen  to  verses 
of  praise,  and  which  her  enemies  had  so  often  made  a  re- 
proach to  her. 

When  the  general  ceased  there  was  silence — that  elo- 
quent, solemn  silence  which  accompanies  those  moments 
in  which  the  Genius  of  History  hovers  over  the  heads  of 
men,  and,  touching  them  with  its  pinions,  ties  their 
tongues  and  opens  the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  so  that  they  can 
look  into  the  future,  and,  with  presaging  horror,  read  all 
the  secrets  of  coming  time  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning. 

Such  a  critical  moment  in  history  was  that  in  which  La- 
fayette, at  the  feet  of  the  dauphin,  swore  eternal  fidelity  to 
the  monarchy  of  France  in  the  presence  of  the  unfortunate 


MAMMA   QUEEN.  231 

mayor  of  Paris,  who  was  soon  to  seal  his  loyalty  with  his 
own  blood,  and  in  presence  of  the  queen,  whose  lofty  char- 
acter was  soon  to  make  her  a  martyr. 

The  moments  passed  by,  then  Marie  Antoinette  bowed 
to  Lafayette  with  her  gracious  smile. 

"Rise,  general,"  she  said,  in  gentle  tones,  "God  has 
heard  your  oath,  and  I  accept  it  in  the  name  of  the  French 
monarchy,  my  husband,  my  son,  and  myself.  I  shall 
always  continue  mindful  of  it,  and  I  hope  that  you  will 
also.  And  I  beg  you,  too,"  she  continued,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  with  a  deep  flush  upon  her  face,  "  I  beg  you  to  forgive 
me  if  I  have  hitherto  cast  unworthy  reproaches  upon  you. 
I  have  lived  through  so  many  sad  and  dreadful  days,  that 
it  will  be  set  down  to  my  favor  if  my  nerves  are  agitated 
and  easily  excited.  I  shall  probably  learn  to  accept  evil 
days  with  calmness,  and  to  bow  my  head  patiently  beneath 
the  yoke  which  my  enemies  are  laying  upon  me !  But  still 
I  feel  the  injury,  and  the  proud  habits  of  my  birth  and 
life  war  against  it.  But  only  wait,  and  I  shall  become  ac- 
customed to  it." 

While  saying  this  she  stooped  down  to  the  dauphin  and 
kissed  his  golden  hair.  A  tear  fell  from  her  eyes  upon  the 
forehead  of  her  son,  and  glittered  there  like  a  star  fallen 
from  heaven.  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  see  it,  did  not 
know  that  the  tear  which  she  was  trying  to  conceal  was 
now  glistening  on  the  brow  of  her  son — on  that  brow  which 
was  never  to  wear  any  other  diadem  than  the  one  that  the 
tears  of  love  placed  on  his  innocent  head. 

"  Heaven  defend  your  majesty  ever  being  compelled  to 
become  accustomed  to  insult!"  cried  Lafayette,  deeply 
moved.  "  I  hope  we  have  seen  our  worst  days,  and  that 
after  the  tempest  there  will  be  sunshine  and  bright  weather 
again.  The  people  will  look  back  with  shame  and  regret 
upon  the  wild  and  stormy  scenes  to  which  they  have  allowed 
themselves  to  be  drawn  by  unprincipled  agitators;  they 
will  bow  in  love  and  obedience  before  the  royal  couple  who, 
with  so  much  confidence  and  devotion,  leave  their  beauti- 
ful, retired  home  at  Versailles,  in  order  to  comply  with 
the  wish  of  the  people  and  come  to  Paris.  Will  your 
majesty  have  the  goodness  to  ask  the  mayor  of  Paris,  and 
he  will  tell  you,  madame,  how  deeply  moved  all  the  good 


232  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

citizens  of  Paris  are  at  the  truly  noble  spirit  which  prompted 
you  to  refuse  to  initiate  an  investigation  respecting  the 
night  of  horrors  at  Versailles,  and  to  bring  the  ringleaders 
to  justice." 

"Is  it  true,  M.  de  Bailly?"  asked  the  queen,  eagerly. 
11  Was  my  decision  approved?  Have  I  friends  still  among 
the  people  of  Paris?" 

"  Your  majesty,"  answered  M.  de  Bailly,  bowing  low, 
"  all  good  citizens  of  Paris  have  seen  with  deep  emotion  the 
noble  resolve  of  your  majesty,  and  in  all  noble  and  true 
hearts  the  royal  words  are  recorded  imperishably,  which 
your  majesty  spoke  to  the  judges  of  the  Chatelet,  'I  have 
heard  all,  seen  all,  and  forgotten  all!'  With  tears  of  deep 
feeling,  with  a  hallowed  joy,  they  are  repeated  through  all 
Paris;  they  have  become  the  watchword  of  all  the  well- 
inclined  and  faithful,  the  evangel  of  love  and  forgiveness 
for  all  women,  of  fidelity  and  devotion  for  all  men!  It 
has  been  seen  and  confessed  that  the  throne  of  France  is 
the  possessor  not  only  of  goodness  and  beauty,  but  of  for- 
giveness and  gentleness,  and  that  your  majesty  bears  rightly 
the  title  of  the  Most  Christian  Queen.  These  nine  words 
which  your  majesty  has  uttered,  have  become  the  sacred 
banner  of  all  true  souls,  and  they  will  cause  the  golden 
days  to  come  back,  as  they  once  dawned  upon  Paris  when 
the  Dauphin  of  France  made  his  entry  into  the  capital, 
and  it  could  be  said  with  truth  to  the  future  queen,  Slarie 
Antoinette,  '  Here  are  a  hundred  thousand  lovers  of  your 
person.'  ' 

The  queen  was  no  longer  able  to  master  her  deep 
emotion.  She  who  had  had  the  courage  to  display  a  proud 
and  defiant  mien  to  her  enemies  and  assailants,  could  not 
conceal  the  intensity  of  her  feeling  when  hearing  words  of 
such  devotion,  and  uttered  a  cry,  then  choked  with 
emotion,  and  at  length  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 
Equally  astonished  and  ashamed,  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  but  the  tears  gushed  out  between  her  white 
tapering  fingers,  and  would  not  be  withheld.  They  had 
been  so  long  repressed  behind  those  proud  eyelids,  that 
now,  despite  the  queen's  will,  they  forced  their  way  with 
double  power  and  intensity. 

But  only  for  a  moment  did  the  proud-spirited  queen 


MAMMA   QUEEN.  233 

allow  herself  to  be  overcome  by  the  gentle  and  deeply- 
moved  woman ;  she  quickly  collected  herself  and  raised  her 
head. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  breathing 
more  freely,  "  you  have  done  me  good,  and  these  tears, 
though  not  the  first  which  grief  and  anger  have  extorted, 
are  the  first  for  a  long  time  which  have  sprung  from  what 
is  almost  joy.  Who  knows  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to 
shed  such  tears  again!  And  who  knows,"  she  continued, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  "  whether  I  do  not  owe  these  tears  more 
to  your  wish  to  do  me  good,  than  to  true  and  real  gains? 
I  bethink  me  now — you  say  all  good  citizens  of  Paris  re- 
peat my  words,  all  the  well-disposed  are  satisfied  with  my 
decision.  But,  ah !  I  fear  that  the  number  of  these  is  very 
small,  and  that  the  golden  days  of  the  past  will  never 
return !  And  is  not  your  appearance  here  to-day  a  proof 
of  this?  Did  you  not  come  here  because  the  people  in- 
sult and  calumniate  me,  and  because  you  considered  it 
needful  to  throw  around  me  your  protection,  which  is  now 
mightier  than  the  royal  purple  and  the  lilies  of  the  throne 
of  France?" 

"  Madame,  time  must  be  granted  to  the  misguided  peo- 
ple to  return  to  the  right  way,"  said  Lafayette,  almost  with 
a  supplicating  air.  "  They  must  be  dealt  with  as  we  deal 
with  defiant,  naughty  children,  which  can  be  brought  back 
to  obedience  and  submission  better  by  gentle  speech  and 
apparent  concession  than  by  rigidity  and  severity.  On  this 
account  I  ventured  to  ask  your  majesty  to  intrust  me  for  a 
little  while  with  the  care  of  your  sacred  person,  and,  in 
order  that  I  may  satisfy  my  duty,  that  you  would  gra- 
ciously appoint  the  time  when  your  majesty  will  take  your 
walks  here  in  the  park  and  garden,  so  that  I  can  make  my 
arrangements  accordingly." 

"  In  order  to  make  a  fence  out  of  your  National  Guards, 
protected  by  which  the  Queen  of  France  may  not  become 
visible  to  the  hate  of  the  people,  and  behind  which  she 
may  be  secure  against  the  attacks  of  her  enemies!"  cried 
Marie  Antoinette.  "No,  sir,  I  cannot  accept  this!  It 
shall  at  least  be  seen  that  I  am  no  coward,  and  that  I  will 
not  hide  myself  from  those  who  come  to  attack  me!" 

"Your  majesty,"  said  Bailly,  "I  conjure    you,  do  this 


234  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

out  of  compassion  for  us,  for  all  your  faithful  servants  who 
tremble  for  the  peace  and  security  of  your  majesty,  and 
allow  M.  de  Lafayette  to  keep  the  brutality  of  the  people 
away  from  you,  and  protect  you  in  your  walks." 

"Sufficient,  gentlemen,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  im- 
patiently. "  You  now  know  my  fixed  resolve,  and  it  is  not 
necessary  to  discuss  it  further.  I  will  not  hide  myself 
from  the  people,  and  I  will  confront  them  under  the  sim- 
ple protection  of  God.  Defended  by  Him,  and  sustained 
by  the  conviction  that  I  have  not  merited  the  hate  with 
which  I  am  pursued,  I  will  continue  to  meet  the  subjects 
of  the  king  fearlessly,  with  an  unveiled  head,  and  only 
God  and  my  fate  shall  judge  between  me  and  them!  I 
thank  you,  gentlemen,  for  your  zeal  and  your  care,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  never  forget  it.  But  now 
farewell,  gentlemen !  It  is  growing  cold,  and  I  should  like 
to  return  to  the  palace." 

"  Will  your  majesty  not  have  the  kindness  to  allow  us 
both  to  mingle  with  your  train,  and  accompany  you  to  the 
palace?"  asked  Lafayette. 

"  I  came  hither,  attended  by  only  two  lackeys,  who  are 
waiting  outside  the  pavilion,"  answered  the  queen.  "  You 
know  that  I  have  laid  aside  the  court  etiquette  which  used 
to  attend  the  queen  upon  her  walks,  and  which  do  not 
allow  the  free  enjoyment  of  nature.  My  enemies  charge 
me  with  this  as  an  offence,  and  consider  it  improper  that 
the  Queen  of  France  should  take  a  walk  without  a  brilliant 
train  of  courtiers,  and  like  any  other  human  being.  But 
I  think  that  the  people  ought  not  to  be  angry  at  this,  and 
they  may  take  it  as  a  sign  that  I  am  not  so  proud  and  un- 
approachable as  I  am  generally  believed  to  be.  And  so 
farewell,  gentlemen!" 

She  graciously  waved  her  hand  toward  the  door,  and, 
with  a  gentle  inclination  of  her  head,  dismissed  the  two 
gentlemen,  who,  with  a  sad  bearing,  withdrew,  and  left 
the  pavilion. 

"  Come,  rny  son,"  said  the  queen,  "  we  will  return  to  the 
palace." 

"  By  the  same  way  that  we  came,  shall  we  not,  mamma?" 
asked  the  dauphin,  taking  the  extended  hand  of  the  queen, 
and  pressing  it  to  his  lips. 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  235 

"  You  will  not  weep  again  if  the  people  shout  and  laugh?" 
asked  Marie  Antoinette.  "  You  will  not  be  afraid  any 
more?" 

"  No,  I  will  not  be  afraid  any  more.  Oh,  you  shall  be 
satisfied  with  me,  mamma  queen!  I  have  paid  close  at- 
tention to  all  that  you  said  to  the  two  gentlemen,  and  I 
am  very  glad  that  you  did  not  allow  M.  de  Lafayette  to 
walk  behind  us.  The  people  would  then  have  believed 
that  we  are  afraid,  and  now  they  shall  see  that  we  are  not 
so  at  all." 

"Well,  come,  my  child,  let  us  go,"  said  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, giving  her  hand  to  her  son,  and  preparing  to  leave 
the  pavilion. 

But  on  the  threshold  the  dauphin  stopped,  and  looked 
imploringly  up  into  the  face  of  his  mother. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  something,  mamma  queen." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  my  little  Louis?     What  do  you  wish?" 

"  I  should  like  to  have  you  allow  me  to  go  alone,  else  the 
people  would  believe  that  I  am  afraid  and  want  you  to 
lead  me.  And  I  want  to  be  like  the  Chevalier  Bayard, 
about  whom  the  Abbe  talked  with  me  to-day.  I  want  to 
be  sans peur  et  sans  reproche,  like  Bayard." 

"  Very  well,  chevalier,"  said  the  queen,  with  a  smile, 
"  then  walk  alone  and  free  by  my  side." 

"  No,  mamma,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  walk  before 
you.  The  knights  always  walk  in  advance  of  the  ladies, 
so  as  to  ward  off  any  danger  which  may  be  in  the  way. 
And  I  am  your  knight,  mamma,  and  I  want  to  be  as  long 
as  I  live.  Will  you  allow  it,  my  royal  lady?" 

"I  allow  it!  So  go  in  front,  Chevalier  Louis  Charles! 
We  will  take  the  same  way  back  by  which  we  came." 

The  dauphin  sprang  over  the  little  square  in  front  of 
the  pavilion,  and  down  the  alley  which  led  to  the  Arcadia 
Walk  along  the  side  of  the  quay. 

Before  the  little  staircase  which  led  up  to  this  walk,  he 
stopped  and  turned  his  pretty  head  round  to  the  queen, 
who,  followed  by  the  two  lackeys,  was  walking  slowly  and 
quietly  along. 

"Well,  Chevalier  Bayard,"  asked  the  queen,  with  a 
smile,  "what  are  you  stopping  for?" 

"  I  am  only  waiting  for  your  majesty,"  replied  the  child, 
18 


236  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

gravely.  "  Here  is  where  my  knightly  service  commences, 
for  here  it  is  that  danger  begins." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  queen,  as  she  stopped  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps  and  listened  to  the  loud  shouting  which  now 
became  audible.  "  One  would  think  that  a  storm  had  been 
sweeping  over  the  ocean,  there  is  such  a  thundering  sound. 
But  you  know,  my  son,  that  the  storms  lie  in  God's  hand, 
and  that  He  protects  those  who  trust  in  Him.  Think  of 
that,  my  child,  and  do  not  be  afraid!" 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid!"  cried  the  boy,  and  he  sprang  up 
the  stairs  like  a  gazelle. 

The  queen  quickened  her  steps  a  little,  and  seemed  to 
be  giving  her  whole  attention  to  her  son,  who  went  before 
her  with  such  a  happy  flow  of  spirits,  and  appeared  to  hear 
nothing  of  what  was  passing  around  her.  And  yet,  behind 
the  fence  which  ran  along  the  left  side  of  the  Arcadia 
Walk  all  the  way  to  the  quay,  was  a  dense  mass  of  people, 
head  behind  head,  and  all  their  blazing  eyes  were  directed 
at  the  queen,  and  words  of  hate,  malediction,  and  threaten- 
ing followed  her  every  step  which  she  took  forward. 

"See,  see,"  cried  a  woman,  with  dishevelled  hair,  which 
streamed  out  from  her  round  cap,  and  fell  down  over  her 
red,  angry  face — "  see,  that  IB  the  baker's  woman,  and  the 
monkey  that  jumps  in  front  of  her  is  the  apprentice-boy! 
They  can  dress  themselves  up  and  be  fine,  for  all  is  well 
with  them,  and  they  can  eat  cakes,  while  we  have  to  go 
hungry.  But  wait,  only  wait !  times  will  be  different  by 
and  by,  and  we  shall  see  the  baker-woman  as  hungry  as  we. 
But  when  we  have  the  bread,  we  will  give  her  none — no, 
we  will  give  her  none!" 

"No,  indeed,  we  will  give  her  noneJ"  roared,  and  cried, 
and  laughed,  and  howled  the  mob.  And  they  all  pressed 
closer  up  to  the  fence,  and  naked  arms  and  clinched  fists 
were  thrust  through  the  palings,  and  threatened  the  queen, 
and  the  dauphin,  who  walked  in  front  of  his  mother. 

"  Will  he  be  able  to  bear  it?  Will  my  poor  boy  not  weep 
with  fear  and  anxiety?"  That  was  the  only  thought  of  the 
queen,  as  she  walked  on  past  the  angry  roars  of  the  crowd. 
To  the  dauphin  alone  all  her  looks  were  directed;  not  once 
did  she  glance  at  the  fence,  behind  which  the  populace 
roared  like  a  pack  of  lions. 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  237 

All  at  once  the  breath  of  the  queen  stopped,  and  her 
heaH  ceased  beating,  with  horror.  She  saw  directly  at  the 
place  where  the  path  turned  and  ran  away  from  the  fence, 
but  where,  before  making  the  turn,  it  ran  very  near  the 
fence,  the  bare  arm  of  a  man  extended  through  the  paling 
as  far  as  possible,  and  stretching  in  fact  half-way  across 
the  path,  as  if  it  were  a  turnpike-bar  stopping  the  way. 

The  eyes  of  the  queen,  when  they  fell  upon  this  dread- 
ful, powerful  arm,  turned  at  once  in  deep  alarm  to  the 
dauphin.  She  saw  him  hesitate  a  little  in  his  hurried 
course,  and  then  go  slowly  forward.  The  queen  quickened 
her  steps  in  order  to  come  up  with  the  dauphin  before  he 
should  reach  the  danger  which  confronted  him.  The  peo- 
ple outside  of  the  fence,  when  they  saw  the  manoeuvre  of 
the  man  who  was  forcing  his  arm  still  farther  in,  stopped 
their  shouting  and  lapsed  into  a  breathless,  eager  silence, 
as  sometimes  is  the  case  in  a  storm,  between  the  successive 
bursts  of  wind  and  thunder. 

Every  one  felt  that  the  touch  of  that  threatening  arm 
and  that  little  child  might  be  like  the  contact  of  steel  and 
flint,  and  elicit  sparks  which  should  kindle  the  fires  of  an- 
other revolution.  It  was  this  feeling  which  made  the 
crowd  silent;  the  same  feeling  compelled  the  queen  to 
quicken  her  steps,  so  that  she  was  close  to  the  dauphin  be- 
fore he  had  reached  this  terrible  turnpike-bar. 

"Come  here,  my  son,"  cried  the  queen,  "give  me  your 
hand!" 

But  before  she  had  time  to  grasp  the  hand  of  the  little 
prince,  he  sprang  forward  and  stood  directly  in  front  of 
the  outstretched  arm. 

"My  God!  what  will  he  do?"  whispered  the  queen  to 
herself. 

At  the  same  instant,  there  resounded  from  behind  the 
fence  a  loud,  mighty  bravo,  and  a  thousand  voices  took  it 
up  and  cried,  "Bravo!  bravo!" 

The  dauphin  had  stretched  up  his  little  white  hand  and 
laid  it  upon  the  brown,  clinched  fist  that  was  stretched  out 
toward  him,  and  nodded  pleasantly  at  the  man  who  looked 
down  so  fiercely  upon  him. 

"Good-day,  sir!"  he  said,  with  a  loud  voice — "good- 
day!" 


238  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

And  he  took  hold  with  his  little  hand  of  the  great  hand 
of  the  man  and  shook  it  a  little,  as  in  friendly  salutation. 

"  Little  knirps,"  roared  the  man,  "  what  do  you  mean, 
and  how  dare  you  lay  your  little  paw  on  the  claws  of  the 
lion?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  boy,  smiling,  "I  thought  you  were 
stretching  out  your  hand  to  reach  me  with  it,  and  so  I  give 
you  mine,  and  say,  'Good-day,  sir!' ' 

"  And  if  I  wanted,  I  could  crush  your  hand  in  my  fist  as 
if  it  were  in  a  vise,"  cried  the  man,  holding  the  little 
hand  firmly. 

"  You  shall  not  do  it,"  cried  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
voices  in  the  crowd.  "  No,  Simon,  you  shall  not  hurt  the 
child." 

"Who  of  you  could  hinder  me  if  I  wanted  to?"  asked 
the  man,  with  a  laugh.  "  See  here,  I  hold  the  hand  of  the 
future  King  of  France  in  my  fist,  and  I  can  break  it  if  I 
want  to,  and  make  it  so  that  it  can  never  lift  the  sceptre 
of  France.  The  little  monkey  thought  he  would  take  hold 
of  my  hand  and  make  me  draw  it  back,  and  now  my  hand 
has  got  his  and  holds  it  fast.  And  mark  this,  boy,  the 
time  is  past  when  kings  seized  us  and  trod  us  down ;  now 
we  seize  them  and  hold  them  fast,  and  do  not  let  them  go 
unless  we  will." 

"Sir!"  cried  the  queen,  motioning  back  with  a  com- 
manding gesture  the  two  lackeys  who  were  hurrying  up  to 
release  the  dauphin  from  the  hand  of  the  man,  "  sir,  I  beg 
you  to  withdraw  your  hand,  and  not  to  hinder  us  in  our 
walk." 

"  Ah !  you  are  there,  too,  madame,  the  baker's  wife,  are 
you?"  cried  the  man,  with  a  horrid  laugh.  "We  meet 
once  more,  and  the  eyes  of  our  most  beautiful  queen  fall 
again  upon  the  dirty,  pitiable  face  of  such  a  poor,  wretched 
creature  as,  in  your  heavenly  eyes,  the  cobbler  Simon  is!" 

"Are  you  Simon  the  cobbler?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette. 
"  It  is  true,  I  bethink  me  now,  I  have  spoken  with  you 
once  before.  It  was  when  I  carried  the  prince  here,  for 
the  first  time,  to  Notre  Dame,  that  God  would  bless  him, 
and  that  the  people  might  see  him.  You  stood  then  by 
my  carriage,  sir!" 

"Yes,   it   is  true,"  answered   Simon,  visibly  flattered. 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  239 

"  You  have,  at  least,  a  good  memory,  queen.  But  you 
ought  to  have  paid  attention  to  what  I  said  to  you.  I  am 
no  'sir,'  I  am  a  simple  cobbler,  and  earn  my  poor  bit  of 
bread  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  while  you  strut  about  in 
your  glory  and  happiness,  and  cheat  God  out  of  daylight. 
Then  I  held  the  hand  of  your  daughter  in  my  fist,  and  she 
cried  out  for  fear,  merely  because  a  poor  fellow  like  me 
touched  her." 

"  But,  Mr.  Simon,  you  see  very  plainly  that  I  do  not  cry 
out,"  said  the  dauphin,  with  a  smile.  "I  know  that  you 
do  not  want  to  do  me  any  harm,. and  I  ask  you  to  be  so 
good  as  to  take  away  your  arm,  that  my  mamma  can  go  on 
in  her  walk." 

"  But,  suppose  that  I  do  not  do  as  you  want  me  to?" 
asked  the  cobbler,  defiantly.  "  I  suppose  it  would  come 
that  your  mamma  would  dictate  to  me,  and  perhaps  call 
some  soldiers,  and  order  them  to  shoot  the  dreadful 
people?" 

"  You  know,  Master  Simon,  that  I  give  no  such  com- 
mand, and  never  gave  any  such,"  said  the  queen,  quickly. 
"  The  king  and  I  love  our  people,  and  never  would  give 
orders  to  our  soldiers  to  fire  upon  them." 

"  Because  you  would  not  be  sure,  madame,  that  the  sol- 
diers would  obey  your  commands,  if  you  should,"  laughed 
Simon.  "  Since  we  got  rid  of  the  Swiss  guards,  there  are 
no  soldiers  left  who  would  let  themselves  be  torn  in  pieces 
for  their  king  and  queen ;  and  you  know  well  that  if  the 
soldiers  should  fire  the  first  shot  at  us,  the  people  would 
tear  the  soldiers  in  pieces  afterward.  Yes,  yes,  the  fine 
days  at  Versailles  are  past;  here,  in  Paris,  you  must  accus- 
tom yourself  to  ask,  instead  of  command,  and  the  arm  of  a 
single  man  of  the  people  is  enough  to  stop  the  Queen  and 
the  Dauphin  of  France." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  said  the  queen,  whose  proud 
heart  could  no  longer  be  restrained,  and  allow  her  to  take 
this  humble  stand ;  "  the  Queen  of  France  and  her  son  will 
no  longer  be  detained  by  you  in  their  walk." 

And  with  a  quick  movement  she  caught  the  dauphin, 
struck  back  at  the  same  moment  the  fist  of  the  cobbler, 
snatched  the  boy  away  like  lightning,  and  passed  by  before 
Simon  had  time  to  put  his  arm  back. 


240  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

The  people,  delighted  with  this  energetic  and  courageous 
action  of  the  queen — the  people,  who  would  have  howled 
with  rage,  if  the  queen  had  ordered  her  lackeys  to  push 
the  cobbler  back,  now  roared  with  admiration  and  with 
pleasure,  to  see  the  proud-hearted  woman  have  the  boldness 
to  repel  the  assailant,  and  to  free  herself  from  him.  They 
applauded,  they  laughed,  they  shouted  from  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  throats,  "  Long  live  the  queen !  Long 
live  the  dauphin!"  and  the  cry  passed  along  like  wildfire 
through  the  whole  mass  of  spectators  behind  the  fence,  and 
all  eyes  followed  the  tall  and  proud  figure  of  the  queen  as 
she  walked  away. 

Only  the  eyes  of  Simon  pursued  her  with  a  malicious 
glare,  and  his  clinched  fists  threatened  her  behind  her 
back. 

"  She  shall  pay  for  this!"  he  muttered,  with  a  withering 
curse.  "  She  has  struck  back  my  hand  to-day,  but  the  day 
will  come  when  she  will  feel  it  upon  her  neck,  and  when  I 
will  squeeze  the  hand  of  the  little  rascal  so  that  he  shall 
cry  out  with  pain !  I  believe  now,  what  Marat  has  so  often 
told  me,  that  the  time  of  vengeance  is  come,  and  that  we 
must  bring  the  crown  down  and  tread  it  under  our  feet, 
that  the  people  may  rule !  I  will  have  my  share  in  it.  I 
will  help  bring  it  down,  and  tread  it  under  foot.  I  hate 
the  handsome  Austrian  woman,  who  perks  up  her  nose, 
and  thinks  herself  better  than  my  wife ;  and  if  the  golden 
time  has  come  of  which  Marat  speaks,  when  the  people  are 
the  master,  and  the  king  is  the  servant,  Marie  Antoinette 
shall  be  my  waiting-maid,  and  her  son  shall  be  my  chore- 
boy,  and  his  buckle  shall  make  acquaintance  with  my  shoe- 
straps!" 

And  while  Master  Simon  was  muttering  this  to  himself, 
he  was  making  a  way  through  the  crowd  with  those  great 
elbows  of  his,  a  slipping  along  the  fence,  to  be  able  to  fol- 
low as  long  as  possible  the  tall  figure  of  the  queen,  who  was 
now  leading  the  dauphin  by  the  hand,  traversing  the  Ar- 
cadian Walk.  At  the  end  of  it  was  the  fence  which  led 
into  the  little  garden  reserved  for  the  royal  family. 
Through  the  iron  gate,  hard  by,  adorned  with  the  arms  of 
the  kings  of  France,  Marie  Antoinette  entered  an  asylum, 
which  had  been  saved  to  the  crown,  free  from  the  intrusion 


MAMMA    QUEEN.  241 

of  the  people,  and  she  drew  a  free  breath  when  one  of  the 
lackeys  closed  the  gate,  and  she  heard  the  key  grate  in  the 
lock. 

She  stood  still  a  moment  to  regain  her  composure,  and 
then  she  felt  that  her  feet  were  trembling,  and  that  she 
scarcely  had  the  power  to  go  farther.  It  would  have  been 
a  relief  to  her  to  have  fallen  there  upon  her  knees,  and 
poured  all  her  sorrows  and  trials  into  the  ear  of  God.  But 
there  were  the  lackeys  behind  her ;  there  was  her  little  son, 
looking  up  to  her  with  his  great  eyes ;  and  there  was  that 
dreadful  cry  coming  up  from  the  quay  like  the  roaring  of 
the  sea.  • 

The  queen  could  not  utter  a  word  of  grief  or  sorrow, 
she  could  not  sink  to  the  ground  in  her  weakness;  she  had 
to  show  a  cheerful  face  to  her  son,  and  a  proud  brow  to 
her  servants.  God  only  could  look  into  her  heart  and  see 
the  tears  which  glowed  there  like  burning  coals.  Yet  in 
all  her  sadness  she  had  a  feeling  of  triumph,  of  proud  satis- 
faction. She  had  preserved  her  freedom,  her  independ- 
ence; she  was  not  Lafayette's  prisoner!  No,  the  Queen  of 
France  had  not  put  herself  under  the  protection  of  the 
people's  general;  she  had  not  given  him  the  power  of 
watching  her  with  his  hated  National  Guard,  and  of  saying 
to  them:  "  At  this  or  that  hour  the  queen  takes  her  walks, 
and,  that  she  may  recreate  herself,  we  will  protect  her 
against  the  rage  of  the  people!" 

No,  she  had  defended  herself,  she  had  remained  the 
queen  all  the  while,  the  free  queen,  and  she  had  gained  a 
victory  over  the  people  by  showing  them  that  she  did  not 
fear  them. 

"Mamma,"  cried  the  dauphin,  interrupting  her  in  her 
painful  and  proud  thoughts — "  mamma,  there  comes  the 
king,  there  comes  my  papa!  Oh,  he  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  I  was  so  courageous!" 

The  queen  quickly  stooped  down  and  kissed  him.  "  Yes, 
truly,  my  little  Bayard,  you  have  done  honor  to  your  great 
exemplar,  and  you  have  really  been  a  little  chevalier  sans 
peur  et  sans  reproche.  But,  my  child,  true  bravery  does 
not  glory  in  its  great  deeds,  and  does  not  desire  others  to 
admire  them,  but  keeps  silent  and  leaves  it  to  others  to  talk 
about  them!" 


242  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"Mamma,  I  will  be  silent,  too,"  cried  the  boy,  with 
glowing  eyes.  "  Oh,  you  shall  see  that  I  can  be  silent,  and 
not  talk  at  all  about  myself." 

The  king  meanwhile,  followed  by  some  gentlemen  and 
servants,  was  coming  forward  with  unaccustomed  haste, 
and,  in  his  eagerness  to  reach  his  wife,  he  had  not  noticed 
the  beds,  but  was  treading  under  foot  the  last  fading 
flowers  of  autumn. 

"You  are  here  at  last,  Marie,"  said  he,  when  he  was 
near  enough  to  speak.  "  I  wanted  to  go  to  meet  you,  to 
conduct  you  hither  out  of  the  park.  You  were  gone  very 
long,  and  I  worried  about  you." 

"Why  worried,  sire?"  asked  the  queen.  "What  danger 
could  threaten  me  in  our  garden?" 

"Do  not  seek  to  hide  any  thing  from  me,  Marie,"  said 
Louis,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  know  every  thing !  The  hate  of 
the  people  denies  us  any  longer  the  enjoyment  of  the  open 
air!  Lafayette  and  Bailly  were  with  me  after  they  were 
dismissed  by  you.  They  told  me  that  you  had  given  no 
favor  to  their  united  request,  and  that  you  would  not  grant 
to  General  Lafayette  the  right  to  protect  you  while  you 
are  taking  your  walks." 

"I  hope  your  majesty  is  satisfied  with  me,"  answered 
Marie  Antoinette.  "  You  feel,  like  me,  that  it  is  a  new 
humiliation  for  us  if  we  are  to  allow  our  very  enjoyment 
of  nature  to  be  under  the  control  of  the  people's  general, 
and  if  even  the  air  is  no  longer  to  be  the/ree  air  for  us!" 

"  I  have  only  thought  that  in  such  unguarded  walks  you 
would  be  threatened  with  danger,"  answered  the  king, 
perplexed.  "  Lafayette  has  painted  to  me  in  such  dark 
and  dreadful  colors,  and  I  have  so  painfully  had  to  confess 
that  he  speaks  the  truth,  that  I  could  only  think  of  your 
safety,  and  take  no  other  point  of  view  than  to  see  you 
sheltered  from  the  attacks  of  your  enemies,  and  from  the 
rage  of  these  factions.  I  have  therefore  approved  Lafay- 
ette's proposal,  and  allowed  him  to  protect  your  majesty 
on  your  walks." 

"  But  you  have  not  fixed  definite  hours  for  my  walks? 
You  have  not  done  that,  sire,  have  you?" 

"I  have  indeed  done  that,"  answered  the  king,  gently. 
"  I  am  familiar  with  your  habits,  and  know  that  in  autumn 


MAMMA   QUEEN.  243 

and  winter  you  usually  take  your  walks  between  twelve  and 
two,  and  in  summer  afternoons  between  five  and  seven.  I 
have  therefore  named  these  hours  to  General  Lafayette." 

The  queen  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "  Sire,"  she  said,  softly, 
"  you  yourself  are  binding  tighter  and  tighter  the  chains  of 
our  imprisonment.  To-day  you  limit  our  freedom  to  two 
poor  hours,  and  that  will  be  a  precedent  for  others  to  con- 
tinue what  you  have  begun.  We  shall  after  this  walk  for 
two  hours  daily  under  the  protection  of  M.  de  Lafayette, 
but  there  will  come  a  time  when  this  protection  will  not 
suffice,  and  no  security  will  be  great  enough  for  us.  For 
the  royal  authority  which  shows  itself  weak  and  dependent, 
and  which  does  not  draw  power  from  itself — the  royalty 
which  suffers  its  crown  to  be  borne  up  for  it  by  the  hands 
of  others,  confesses  thereby  that  it  is  too  weak  to  bear  the 
burden  itself.  Oh,  sire,  I  would  rather  you  had  let  me 
break  away  from  the  rage  of  the  people,  while  I  might  be 
walking  unguarded,  than  be  permitted  to  take  my  daily 
walks  under  the  protection  of  M.  de  Lafayette!" 

"  You  see  every  thing  in  too  dark  and  sad  a  light,"  cried 
the  king.  •  "  Every  thing  will  come  out  right  if  we  are  only 
wise  and  carefully  conform  to  circumstances,  and  by  well- 
timed  concessions  and  admissions  propitiate  this  hate  and 
bring  this  enmity  to  silence." 

The  queen  did  not  reply;  she  stooped  down  to  the 
dauphin,  and,  pressing  a  kiss  upon  his  locks,  whispered: 
"  Now  you  may  tell  every  thing,  Louis.  It  is  not  longer 
necessary  to  keep  silent  about  any  thing,  for  silence  were 
useless!  So  tell  of  your  heroism,  my  son!" 

"Is  it  of  heroism  that  you  talk?"  said  the  king,  whose 
nice  ear  had  caught  the  words  of  the  queen. 

"Yes,  of  heroism,  sire,"  answered  Marie  Antoinette. 
"But  it  is  with  us  as  with  Don  Quixote;  we  believed  that 
we  were  fighting  for  our  honor  and  our  throne ;  now  we 
must  confess  that  we  only  fought  against  windmills.  I  beg 
you  now,  sire,  to  inform  General  Lafayette  that  it  is  not 
necessary  to  call  out  his  National  Guards  on  my  account,  I 
shall  not  walk  again!" 

And  the  queen  kept  her  word.  Never  again  during  the 
winter  did  she  go  down  into  the  gardens  and  park  of  the 
Tuileries.  She  never  gave  Lafayette  occasion  to  protect 


244  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

her,  but  she  at  least  gained  thereby  what  Lafayette  wanted 
to  reach  by  his  National  Guard — she  held  the  populace 
away  from  the  Tuileries.  At  first  they  stood  in  dense 
masses  day  after  day  along  the  fence  of  the  park  and  the 
royal  garden,  but  when  they  saw  that  Marie  Antoinette 
would  no  more  expose  herself  to  their  curious  and  evil 
glances,  they  grew  tired  of  waiting  for  her,  and  withdrew 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  Tuileries, — 'but  only  to  re- 
pair to  their  clubs  and  listen  to  the  raving  speeches  which 
Marat,  Santerre,  and  other  officers,  hurled  like  poisoned 
arrows  at  the  queen — only  to  go  into  the  National  Assembly 
and  hear  Mirabeau  and  Eobespierre,  Danton,  Chenier, 
Petion,  and  all  the  rest,  the  assembled  representatives  of 
the  nation,  launch  their  thundering  philippics  against  a 
royalty  appointed  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  causing  the  peo- 
ple to  believe  that  it  was  a  royalty  appointed  by  the  wrath 
of  God. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

I]ST   ST.    CLOUD. 

THE  winter  was  passed — a  sad  dismal  winter  for  the  royal 
family,  and  for  Marie  Antoinette  in  particular!  None  of 
those  festivities,  those  diversions,  those  simple  and  inno- 
cent joys,  which  are  wont  to  adorn  the  life  of  a  woman  and 
of  a  queen ! 

Marie  Antoinette  is  no  more  a  queen  who  commands, 
who  sees  around  her  a  throng  of  respectful  courtiers,  zeal- 
ously listening  to  every  word  that  falls  from  her  lips;  Marie 
Antoinette  is  a  grave  solitary  woman,  who  works  much, 
thinks  much,  makes  many  plans  for  saving  the  kingdom 
and  the  throne,  and  sees  all  these  plans  shipwrecks  on  the 
indecision  and  weakness  of  her  husband. 

Far  away  from  the  queen  lay  those  happy  times  when 
every  day  brought  new  joys  and  new  diversions;  when  the 
dawn  of  a  summer  morning  made  the  queen  happy,  because 
it  promised  her  a  delightful  evening,  and  one  of  those 
charming  idyls  at  Trianon.  The  brothers  of  the  king,  the 
schoolmaster  and  mayor  of  Trianon,  had  left  France  and 


IN   ST.    CLOUD.  245 

had  located  themselves  at  Coblentz  on  the  Rhine;  the 
Polignacs  had  fled  to  England ;  the  Princess  Lamballe,  too, 
had,  at  the  wish  of  the  queen,  gone  to  negotiate  with  Pitt, 
in  order  to  implore  the  all-powerful  minister  of  George  III. 
to  give  to  the  oppressed  French  crown  more  material  and 
effectual  support  than  was  afforded  by  the  angry  and  bitter 
words  which  he  hurled  in  Parliament  against  the  riotous 
and  rebellious  French  nation.  The  Counts  de  Besenval 
and  Coigny,  the  Marquis  de  Lauzun,  and  Baron  d'Adhe- 
mar,  all  the  privileged  friends  of  the  summer  days  at  Tri- 
anon and  the  winter  days  of  Versailles,  all,  all,  were  gone. 
They  had  fled  to  Coblentz,  and  were  at  the  court  of  the 
French  princes.  There  they  spun  their  intrigues,  sought 
to  excite  a  European  war  against  France ;  from  there  they 
hurled  their  flaming  torches  into  France,  their  calumnies 
against  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  the  Austrian  woman. 
She  alone  was  accountable  for  all  the  misfortunes  and  the 
disturbances  of  France,  she  alone  had  given  occasion  for 
the  distrust  now  felt  against  royalty.  On  her  head  fell  the 
curse  and  the  burden  of  all  the  faults  and  sins  which  the 
French  court  had  for  a  hundred  years  committed.  There 
must  be  a  sacrificial  lamb,  to  be  thrown  into  the  arms  glis- 
tening with  spears  and  daggers,  of  a  revolution  which 
thirsted  for  blood  and  vengeance,  and  Marie  Antoinette 
had  to  be  the  victim.  In  her  bleeding  heart  the  spirits 
glowing  with  hate  might  cool  themselves,  and  there  the 
evil  which  her  predecessors  had  done,  was  to  be  atoned  for. 
Many  a  wrong  had  been  done,  and  the  French  nation  had, 
no  doubt,  a  right  to  be  angry  and  to  rage  as  does  the  lion 
for  a  long  time  kept  in  subjection,  when  at  last,  touched 
too  much  by  the  iron  of  its  keeper,  it  rises  in  its  wildness, 
and  with  withering  greed,  tears  him  in  pieces  from  whom 
it  has  suffered  so  long  and  so  much.  The  French  people 
rose  just  as  the  incensed  lion  does,  and  determined  to 
wreak  their  vengeance  on  their  keepers,  on  those  whom 
they  had  so  long  called  their  lords  and  rulers. 

To  pacify  the  lion  some  prey  must  be  thrown  to  him, 
and  to  him  who  thirsts  for  vengeance  and  blood,  a  human 
offering  must  be  brought  to  propitiate  him. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  to  be  the  offering  to  the  lion! 
Her  blood  had  to  flow  for  the  sins  of  the  Bourbons!  On 


246  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

her  all  the  anger,  the  exasperation,  the  rage  of  the  people 
must  concentrate !  She  must  bear  the  blame  of  all  the  mis- 
eries and  the  needs  of  France !  She  must  satisfy  the  hun- 
ger for  vengeance,  in  order  that  when  the  lion  is  appeased 
it  can  be  made  placable  and  patient  again,  the  chains  put 
on  which  he  has  broken  in  his  rage — the  chains,  however, 
to  which,  when  his  rage  is  past,  he  must  again  submit. 

The  queen,  the  queen  is  to  blame  for  all !  Marie  Antoi- 
nette has  brought  royalty  into  discredit;  the  Austrian 
woman  has  brought  the  hatred  of  the  French  nation  upon 
herself,  and  she  must  atone  for  it,  she  alone ! 

Libels  and  calumnies  are  forged  against  the  queen  by 
those  who  were  once  the  friends  and  cavaliers  of  the 
queen — cavaliers  no  longer,  but  cavillers  now ;  the  poisoned 
arrows  are  sent  to  France  to  be  directed  against  the  head 
of  the  queen,  to  destroy  first  her  honor  and  good  name, 
and  then  to  make  her  a  prey  for  scorn  and  contempt. 

If  the  lion  stills  his  rage  and  cools  his  hate  with  Marie 
Antoinette  as  his  victim,  he  will  relax  again  and  bow  to 
his  king,  for  it  is  time  for  these  royal  princes  to  return  to 
France  and  their  loved  Paris  once  more. 

The  Count  de  Provence  is  the  implacable  enemy  of  the 
queen ;  he  can  never  forgive  her  for  gaining  the  heart  of 
the  king  her  husband,  and  leaving  no  influence  for  his 
wise,  clever  brother.  The  Count  de  Provence  is  avaricious 
and  crafty.  He  sees  that  an  abyss  has  opened  before  the 
throne  of  the  lilies,  and  that  it  will  not  close  again !  It 
must,  therefore,  be  filled  up !  A  reconciliation  will  not  be 
possible  in  a  natural  way,  and  artificial  methods  must  be 
found  to  accomplish  it.  Louis  XVI.  will  not  be  saved,  and 
Marie  Antoinette  shall  not  be !  The  two,  perhaps,  can  fill 
up  the  abyss  that  yawns  between  the  throne  of  the  lilies 
and  the  French  people.  They,  perhaps,  may  fill  it  up, 
and  then  a  way  may  be  made  for  the  Count  de  Provence, 
the  successor  of  his  brother. 

The  Count  d'Artois  was  once  the  friend  of  the  queen, 
the  only  one  of  the  royal  family  who  wished  her  well,  and 
who  defended  her  sometimes  against  the  hatred  of  the  royal 
aunts  and  sisters-in-law,  and  the  crafty  brother.  But 
while  living  in  Coblentz,  the  Count  d'Artois  had  become 
the  embittered  enemy  of  Marie  Antoinette.  He  had  heard 


IN  ST.    CLOUD.  247 

it  so  often  said  on  all  sides  that  the  queen  by  her  levity, 
her  extravagance,  and  her  intrigues,  was  the  cause  of  all, 
that  she  alone  had  brought  about  the  revolution,  that  he 
at  last  believed  it,  and  turned  angrily  against  the  royal 
woman,  whose  worst  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  prince  lay  in 
this,  that  she  had  been  the  occasion  of  his  enforced  exile 
to  Coblentz. 

And  Marie  Antoinette  knew  all  these  intrigues  which 
were  forged  by  the  prince  in  Coblentz  against  herself — 
knew  about  all  the  calumnies  that  were  set  in  circulation 
there ;  she  read  the  libels  and  pamphlets  which  the  storm- 
wind  of  revolution  shook  from  the  dry  tree  of  monarchy 
like  withered  autumn  leaves,  and  scattered  through  all 
France,  that  they  might  be  everywhere  found  and  read. 

"They  will  kill  me,"  she  would  often  say,  with  a  sigh, 
after  reading  these  pamphlets  steeped  with  hate,  and 
written  in  blood — "yes,  they  will  kill  me,  but  with  me 
they  will  kill  the  king  and  the  monarchy  too.  The  revo- 
lution will  triumph  over  us  all,  and  hurl  us  all  together 
down  into  the  grave." 

But  still  she  would  make  efforts  to  control  the  revolution 
and  restore  the  monarchy  again  out  of  its  humiliations. 
The  Emperor  Joseph  II.,  brother  of  the  queen,  once  said 
of  himself,  "  I  am  a  royalist,  because  that  is  my  business." 
Marie  Antoinette  was  a  royalist  not  because  it  was  her 
business;  she  was  a  royalist  by  conviction,  a  royalist  in 
her  soul,  her  mind,  and  her  inmost  nature.  For  this  she 
would  defend  the  monarchy;  for  this  she  would  contend 
against  the  revolution,  until  she  should  either  constrain  it 
to  terms  or  be  swallowed  up  in  it. 

All  her  efforts,  all  her  cares,  were  directed  only  to  this, 
to  kindle  in  the  king  the  same  courage  that  animated  her, 
to  stir  him  with  the  same  fire  that  burned  in  her  soul. 
But  alas !  Louis  XVI.  was  no  doubt  a  good  man  and  a  kind 
father,  but  he  was  no  king.  He  had  no  doubt  the  wish  to 
restore  the  monarchy,  but  he  lacked  the  requisite  energy 
and  strong  will.  Instead  of  controlling  the  revolution  with 
a  fiery  spirit,  he  sought  to  conciliate  it  by  concession  and 
mild  measures;  and  instead  of  checking  it,  he  himself 
went  down  before  it. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  could  not  and  would  not  give  up 


248  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

hope.  As  the  king  would  not  act,  she  would  act  for  him ; 
as  he  would  not  take  part  in  politics,  she  would  do  so  for 
him.  With  glowing  zeal  she  plunged  into  business,  spent 
many  hours  each  day  with  the  ministers  and  dependants 
of  the  court,  corresponded  with  foreign  lands,  with  her 
brother  the  Emperor  Leopold,  and  her  sister,  Queen  Car- 
oline of  Naples,  wrote  to  them  in  a  cipher  intelligible  only 
to  them,  and  sent  the  letters  through  the  hands  of  secret 
agents,  imploring  of  them  assistance  and  help  for  the 
monarchy. 

In  earnest  labor,  in  unrelieved  care  and  business,  the 
queen's  days  now  passed;  she  sang,  she  laughed  no  more; 
dress  had  no  longer  charms  for  her ;  she  had  no  more  con- 
ferences with  Mademoiselle  Bertin,  her  milliner;  her  hair- 
dresser, M.  Leonard,  had  no  more  calls  upon  his  genius  for 
new  coiffures  for  her  fair  hair ;  a  simple,  dark  dress,  that 
was  the  toilet  of  the  queen,  a  lace  handkerchief  round  the 
neck,  and  a  feather  was  her  only  head-dress. 

Once  she  had  rejoiced  in  her  beauty,  and  smiled  at  the 
flatteries  which  her  mirror  told  her  when  it  reflected  her 
face;  now  she  looked  with  indifference  at  her  pale,  worn 
face,  with  its  sharp  grave  features,  and  it  awoke  no  wonder 
within  her  when  the  mirror  told  her  that  the  queen  of 
France,  in  spite  of  her  thirty-six  years,  was  old;  that  the 
roses  on  her  cheeks  had  withered,  and  that  care  had  drawn 
upon  her  brow  those  lines  which  age  could  not  yet  have 
done.  She  did  not  grieve  over  her  lost  beauty;  she  looked 
with  complacency  at  that  matron  of  six-and-thirty  years 
whose  beautiful  hair  showed  the  traces  of  that  dreadful 
night  in  October.  She  had  her  picture  painted,  in  order 
to  send  it  to  London,  to  the  truest  of  her  friends,  the 
Princess  Lamballe,  and  with  her  own  hands  she  wrote  be- 
neath it  the  words :  "  Your  sorrows  have  whitened  your  hair. " 

And  yet  in  this  life  full  of  cares,  full  of  work,  full  of 
pain  and  humiliation — in  these  sad  days  of  trouble  and 
resignation,  there  were  single  gleams  of  sunshine,  scattered 
moments  of  happiness. 

It  was  a  ray  of  sunshine  when  this  sad  winter  in  the 
Tuileries  was  past,  and  the  States-General  allowed  the  royal 
family  to  go  to  St.  Cloud  and  spend  the  summer  there. 
Certainly  it  was  a  new  humiliation  for  the  king  to  receive 


IN   ST.    CLOTJD.  249 

permission  to  reside  in  his  own  summer  palace  of  St. 
Cloud.  But  the  States-General  called  themselves  the  pil- 
lars of  the  throne,  and  the  king  who  sat  upon  this  shaking 
throne  was  very  dependent  upon  its  support. 

In  St.  Cloud  there  was  at  least  a  little  freedom,  a  little 
solitude  and  stillness.  The  birds  sang  in  the  foliage,  the 
sun  lighted  up  the  broad  halls  of  the  palace,  in  which  a 
few  faithful  ones  gathered  around  the  queen  and  recalled 
at  least  a  touch  of  the  past  happiness  to  her  brow.  In  St. 
Cloud  she  was  again  the  queen,  she  held  her  court  there. 
But  how  different  was  this  from  the  court  of  former  days. 

No  merry  laughter,  no  cheerful  singing  resounded 
through  these  spacious  halls;  no  pleasant  ladies,  in  light, 
airy,  summer  costume  swept  through  the  fragrant  apart- 
ments; M.  d'Adhemar  no  longer  sits  at  the  spinet,  and 
sings  with  his  rich  voice  the  beautiful  arias  from  the  opera 
"Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart,"  in  which  royalty  had  its 
apotheosis,  and  in  which  the  singer  Garat  had  excited  all 
Paris  to  the  wildest  demonstrations  of  delight !  And  not 
all  Paris,  but  Versailles  as  well,  and  in  Versailles  the  royal 
court ! 

Louis  XVI.  himself  had  been  in  rapture  at  the  aria 
which  Garat  sang  with  his  flexible  tenor  voice  in  so  en- 
chanting a  manner — "Oh,  Eichard!  oh,  mon  roi!" — an 
aria  which  had  once  procured  him  a  triumph  in  the  very 
theatre.  For  when  Garat  began  this  air  with  his  full 
voice,  and  every  countenance  was  directed  to  the  box 
where  the  royal  family  were  sitting,  the  whole  theatre  rose, 
and  the  hundreds  upon  hundreds  present  had  joined  in  the 
loud,  jubilant  strains — "Oh,  Richard!  oh,  mon  roi!" 

Louis  XVI.  was  grateful  to  the  spirited  singer,  who,  in 
that  stormy  time,  had  the  courage  to  publicly  offer  him 
homage,  and  he  had  therefore  acceded  to  the  request  of 
the  queen,  that  Garat  should  be  invited  to  the  private  con- 
certs of  the  queen  at  Versailles,  and  give  her  instruction 
on  those  occasions  in  the  art  of  singing. 

Marie  Antoinette  thought  of  those  pleasant  days  of  the 
past,  as  she  sat  in  the  still,  deserted  music-room,  where  the 
instruments  stood  silent  by  the  wall — where  there  were  no 
hands  to  entice  the  cheerful  melodies  from  the  strings,  as 
there  had  once  been. 


250  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"I  wish  that  I  had  never  sung  duets  with  Garat,"  whis- 
pered the  queen  to  herself.  "  The  king  allowed  me,  but 
yet  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it.  A  queen  has  no  right  to 
be  free,  merry,  and  happy.  A  queen  can  practise  the  fine 
arts  only  alone,  and  in  the  silence  of  her  own  apartments. 
I  would  I  had  never  sung  with  Garat."  * 

She  sat  down  before  the  spinet  and  opened  it.  Her  fin- 
gers glided  softly  over  the  keys,  and  for  the  first  time,  in 
long  months  of  silence,  the  room  resounded  with  the  tones 
of  music. 

But,  alas !  it  was  no  cheerful  music  which  the  fingers  of 
the  queen  drew  from  the  keys ;  it  was  only  the  notes  of 
pain,  only  cries  of  grief ;  and  yet  they  recalled  the  happy 
by-gone  times — those  golden,  blessed  days,  when  the  Queen 
of  France  was  the  friend  of  the  arts,  and  when  she  re- 
ceived her  early  teacher,  the  great  maestro  and  chevalier, 
Gluck,  in  Versailles;  .when  she  took  sides  for  him  against 
the  Italian  maestro  Lully,  and  when  all  Paris  divided  into 
two  parties,  the  Gluckists  and  Lullyists,  waging  a  bloodless 
war  against  each  other.  Happy  Paris!  At  that  time  the 
interests  of  art  alone  busied  all  spirits,  and  the  battle  of 
opinions  was  conducted  only  with  the  pen.  Gluck  owed  it 
to  the  mighty  influence  of  the  queen  that  his  opera  "  Al- 
cestes"  was  brought  upon  the  stage;  but  at  its  first  repre- 
sentation the  Lullyists  gained  the  victory,  and  condemned 
it.  In  despair,  Gluck  left  the  opera-house,  driven  by 
hisses  into  the  dark  street.  A  friend  followed  him  and 
detained  him,  as  he  was  hurrying  away,  and  spoke  in  the 
gentlest  tones.  But  Gluck  interrupted  him  with  wild 
violence:  "Oh,  my  friend!"  cried  he,  falling  on  the  neck 
of  him  who  was  expressing  his  kindly  sympathy,  "  'Alces- 
tes'  has  fallen!"  But  his  friend  pressed  his  hand,  and 
said,  "Fallen?  Yes,  'Alcestes'  has  fallen!  It  has  fallen 
from  heaven!" 

The  queen  thought  of  this  as  she  sat  before  the  spinet — 
thought  how  moved  Gluck  was  when  he  related  this  answer 
of  his  friend,  and  that  he,  who  had  been  so  kind,  was  the 
Duke  d'Adhemar. 

She  had  thanked  him  for  this  gracious  word  by  giv- 
ing him  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  Adhemar,  kneeling,  had 
"The  queen's  own  words.— See  "Memoires  de  Madame  de  Campan,"  vol.  ii. 


IN   ST.    CLOUD.  251 

pressed  his  lips  to  her  hand.  Arid  that  was  the  same  Baron 
Adhemar  who  was  now  at  Coblentz  assisting  the  prince  to 
forge  libels  against  herself,  and  who  was  himself  the  author 
of  that  shameless  lampoon  which  ridiculed  the  musical 
studies  of  the  queen,  and  even  the  duet  which  she  had 
sung  with  Garat ! 

Softly  glided  her  fingers  over  the  keys,  softly  flowed  over 
her  pale,  sunken  cheeks  two  great  tears — tears  which  she 
shed  as  she  thought  of  the  past — tears  full  of  bitterness  and 
pain!  But  no,  no,  she  would  not  weep;  she  shook  the 
tears  from  her  eyes,  and  struck  the  keys  with  a  more  vig- 
orous touch.  Away,  away,  those  recollections  of  ingrati- 
tude and  faithlessness !  Art  shall  engage  her  thoughts  in 
the  music-room,  and  to  Gluck  and  "  Alcestes"  the  hour 
belongs ! 

The  queen  struck  the  keys  more  firmly,  and  began  to 
play  the  noble  "Love's  Complaint,"  of  Gluck's  opera. 
Unconsciously  her  lips  opened,  and  with  loud  voice  and  in- 
tense passionate  expression,  she  sang  the  words,  "  Oh, 
crudel,  non  posso  in  vere,  tu  lo  sui,  senza  dite!" 

At  the  first  notes  of  this  fine  voice  the  door  in  the  rear 
of  the  room  had  lightly  opened — the  one  leading  to  the 
garden — and  the  curly  head  of  the  dauphin  was  thrust  in. 
Behind  him  were  Madame  de  Tourzel  and  Madame  Eliza- 
beth, who,  like  the  prince,  were  listening  in  breathless 
silence  to  the  singing  of  the  queen. 

As  she  ended,  and  when  the  voice  of  Marie  Antoinette 
was  choked  in  a  sigh,  the  dauphin  flew  with  extended  arms 
across  the  hall  to  his  mother. 

"Mamma  queen,"  cried  he,  beaming  with  joy,  "are  you 
singing  again?  I  thought  my  dear  mamma  had  forgotten 
how  to  sing.  But  she  has  begun  to  sing  again,  and  we  are 
all  happy  once  more." 

Marie  Antoinette  folded  the  little  fellow  in  her  arms, 
and  did  not  contradict  him,  and  nodded  smilingly  to  the 
two  ladies,  who  now  approached  and  begged  the  queen's 
pardon  for  yielding  to  the  pressing  desires  of  the  dauphin, 
and  entering  without  permission. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  my  dear  mamma  queen,"  said  the  prince, 
in  the  most  caressing  way,  "  I  have  been  very  industrious 
to-day;  the  abbe"  was  satisfied  with  me,  and  praised  me, 
17 


252  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

because  I  wrote  well  and  learned  my  arithmetic  well. 
Won't  you  give  me  a  reward  for  that,  mamma  queen?" 

"What  sort  of  a  reward  do  you  want,  my  child?"  asked 
the  queen,  smiling. 

"Say,  first,  that  you  will  give  it." 

"Well,  yes,  I  will  give  it,  my  little  Louis;  now  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  Mamma  queen,  I  want  you  to  sing  your  little  Louis  a 
song;  and,"  he  added,  nodding  at  the  two  ladies,  "that 
you  allow  these  friends  of  mine  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  my  child,  I  will  sing  for  you,"  answered  Marie 
Antoinette,  "and  our  good  friends  shall  hear  it." 

The  countenance  of  the  boy  beamed  with  pleasure;  with 
alacrity  he  rolled  an  easy-chair  up  to  the  piano,  and  -took 
his  seat  in  it  in  the  most  dignified  manner. 

Madame  Elizabeth  seated  herself  near  him  on  a  tabouret, 
and  Madame  de  Tourzel  leaned  on  the  back  of  the  dau- 
phin's chair. 

"  Now  sing,  mamma,  now  sing,"  asked  the  dauphin. 

Marie  Antoinette  played  a  prelude,  and  as  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  group  they  lighted  up  with  joy,  and  then  turned 
upward  to  God  with  a  look  of  thankfulness. 

A  few  minutes  before  she  had  felt  alone  and  sad :  she 
had  thought  of  absent  friends  in  bitter  pain,  and  now,  as 
if  fate  would  remind  her  of  the  happiness  which  still  re- 
mained to  her,  it  sent  her  the  son  and  the  sister-in-law, 
both  of  whom  loved  her  so  tenderly,  and  the  gentle  and 
affectionate  Madame  de  Tourzel,  whom  Marie  Antoinette 
knew  to  be  faithful  and  constant  unto  death. 

The  flatterers  and  courtiers,  the  court  ladies  and  cava- 
liers, are  no  longer  in  the  music-room;  the  enraptured 
praises  no  longer  accompany  the  songs  of  the  queen ;  but, 
out  of  the  easy-chair,  in  which  the  Duchess  de  Polignac 
had  sat  so  often,  now  looks  the  beautiful  blond  face  of  her 
son,  and  his  beaming  countenance  speaks  more  eloquently 
to  her  than  the  flatteries  of  friends.  On  the  tabouret,  now 
occupied  by  her  sister-in-law,  Madame  Eilzabeth,  De  Dil- 
lon has  often  sat — the  handsome  Dillon,  and  his  glowing, 
admiring  looks  have  often,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  his  own 
will,  said  more  to  the  queen  than  she  allowed  herself  to 
understand,  as  her  heart  thrilled  in  sweet  pain  and  secret 


IN   ST.   CLOUD.  253 

raptures  under  those  glances!  How  pure  and  innocent  is 
the  face  which  now  looks  out  from  this  chair — the  face  of 
an  angel  who  bears  God  in  his  heart  and  on  his  counte- 
nance. 

"  Pray  for  me ;  pray  that  God  may  let  me  drink  of 
Lethe,  that  I  may  forget  all  that  has  ever  been !  Pray  that 
I  may  be  satisfied  with  what  remains,  and  that  my  heart 
may  bow  in  humility  and  patience!" 

Thus  thought  the  queen  as  she  began  to  sing,  not  one  of 
her  great  arias  which  she  had  studied  with  Garat,  and 
which  the  court  used  to  applaud,  but  one  of  those  lovely 
little  songs,  full  of  feeling  and  melody,  which  did  not  carry 
one  away  in  admiration,  but  which  filled  the  heart  with 
joy  and  deep  emotion. 

With  suspended  breath,  and  great  eyes  directed  fixedly 
to  Marie  Antoinette,  the  dauphin  listened,  but  gradually 
his  eyes  fell,  and  motionless  and  with  grave  face  the  child 
sat  in  his  arm-chair. 

Marie  Antoinette  saw  it,  and  began  to  sing  one  of  those 
cradle-songs  of  the  "  Children's  Friend,"  which  Berquin  had 
written,  and  Gretry  had  set  to  music  so  charmingly. 

How  still  was  it  in  the  music-room,  how  full  and  touch- 
ing was  the  voice  of  the  queen  as  she  began  the  last  verse  : 

"Oh,  sleep,  my  child,  now  go  to  sleep, 

Thy  crying  grieves  my  heart; 
Thy  mother,  child,  has  cause  to  weep, 
But  sleep  and  feel  no  smart."* 

All  was  still  in  the  music-room  when  the  last  words  were 
sung ;  motionless,  with  downcast  eyes,  sat  the  dauphin  long 
after  the  sad  voice  of  the  queen  had  ceased. 

"Ah,  see,"  cried  Madame  Elizabeth,  with  a  smile,  "I 
believe  now  our  Louis  has  fallen  asleep." 

But  the  child  quickly  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the 
smiling  young  princess  with  a  reproachful  glance. 

"Ah,  my  dear  aunt,"  cried  he,  reprovingly,  "how  could 
any  one  sleep  when  mamma  sings?"  f 

Marie  Antoinette  drew  the  child  within  her  arms,  and 
her  countenance  beamed  with  delight.  Never  had  the 


*  "Dors,  mon  enfant,  clos  ta  paupiere, 

Tes  cris  me  d6chirent  la  cceur; 
Dors,  mon  enfant,  ta  pauvre  mere 

A  bien  assez  de  sa  douleur." 
tThe  dauphin's  own  words.— See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,  p.  27. 


254  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HEE   SON. 

queen  received  so  grateful  a  compliment  from  the  most 
flattering  courtier  as  these  words  of  her  fair-haired  boy  con- 
veyed, who  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  nestled  up 
to  her. 

The  Queen  of  France  is  still  a  rich,  enviable  woman,  for 
she  has  children  who  love  her;  the  Queen  of  France  ought 
not  to  look  without  courage  into  the  future,  for  the  future 
belongs  to  her  son.  The  throne  which  now  is  so  tottering 
and  insecure,  shall  one  day  belong  to  him,  the  darling  of 
her  heart,  and  therefore  must  his  mother  struggle  with  all 
her  power,  and  with  all  the  means  at  her  command  contend 
for  the  throne  for  the  Dauphin  of  France,  that  he  may  re- 
ceive the  inheritance  of  his  father  intact,  and  that  his 
throne  may  not  in  the  future  plunge  down  into  the  abyss 
which  the  revolution  has  opened. 

No,  the  dauphin,  Louis  Charles,  shall  not  then  think  re- 
proachfully of  his  parents ;  he  shall  not  have  cause  to  com- 
plain that  through  want  of  spirit  and  energy  they  have 
imperilled  or  lost  the  sacred  heritage  of  his  fathers. 

No,  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  may  not  halt  and  lose  cour- 
age,— not  even  when  her  husband  has  done  so,  and  when 
he  is  prepared  to  humbly  bow  his  sacred  head  beneath  that 
yoke  of  revolution,  which  the  heroes  and  orators  selected 
by  the  nation  have  wished  to  put  upon  his  neck  in  the 
name  of  France. 

This  makes  hers  a  double  duty,  to  be  active,  to  plan,  and 
work ;  to  keep  her  head  erect,  and  look  with  searching  eye 
in  all  directions  to  see  whence  help  and  deliverance  are  to 
come. 

Not  from  without  can  they  come,  not  from  foreign  mon- 
archs,  nor  from  the  exiled  princes.  Foreign  armies  which 
might  march  into  the  country  would  place  the  king,  who 
had  summoned  them  to  fight  with  his  own  people,  in  the 
light  of  a  traitor ;  and  the  moment  that  they  should  pass 
the  frontiers  of  France,  the  wrath  of  the  nation  would  an- 
nihilate the  royal  couple. 

Only  from  those  who  had  called  down  the  danger  could 
help  come.  The  chiefs  of  the  revolution,  the  men  who 
had  raised  their  threatening  voices  against  the  royal  couple, 
must  be  won  over  to  become  the  advocates  of  royalty. 

And  who  was  more    powerful,  who   more   conspicuous 


MIRABEAU.  255 

among  all  these  chiefs  of  the  revolution,  and  all  the  orators 
of  the  National  Assembly,  than  Count  Mirabeau ! 

When  he  ascended  the  Speaker's  tribune  of  the  National 
Assembly  all  were  silent,  and  even  his  opponents  listened 
with  respectful  attention  to  his  words,  which  found  an  echo 
through  all  France ;  when  he  spoke,  when  from  his  lips  the 
ttmnder  of  his  speeches  resounded,  the  lightning  flashed  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  head  was  like  the  head  of  a  lion,  who, 
with  the  shaking  of  his  mane  and  the  power  of  his  anger, 
destroyed  every  thing  which  dared  to  put  itself  in  his  way. 
And  the  French  nation  loved  this  lion,  and  listened  in 
reverential  silence  to  the  thunder  of  his  speech,  and  the 
throne  shook  before  him.  And  the  excitable  populace 
shouted  with  admiration  whenever  they  saw  the  lion,  and 
deified  that  Count  Mirabeau,  who,  with  his  powerul,  lace- 
cuffed  hand,  had  thrust  these  words  into  the  face  of  his 
own  caste :  "  They  have  done  nothing  more  than  to  give 
themselves  the  trouble  to  be  born." 

The  people  loved  this  aristocrat,  who  was  abhorred  by 
his  family  and  the  men  of  his  own  rank ;  this  count  whom. 
the  nobility  hated  because  the  Third  Estate  loved  him. 


CHAPTEK    XVII. 

MIRABEAU. 

"COUNT  MIRABEAU  must  be  won  over,"  Count  de  la 
Marck  ventured  to  say  one  day  to  Marie  Antoinette. 
"  Count  Mirabeau  is  now  the  mightiest  man  in  France,  and 
he  alone  is  able  to  bring  the  nation  back  again  to  the 
throne." 

"  It  is  he,"  replied  the  queen,  with  a  glow,  "  who  is  most 
to  blame  for  alienating  the  nation  from  the  throne.  Never 
will  the  renegade  count  be  forgiven !  Never  can  the  king 
stoop  so  low  as  to  pardon  this  apostate,  who  frivolously  pro- 
fesses the  new  religion  of  'liberty,' and  disowns  the  faith 
of  his  fathers." 

"  Your  majesty,"  replied  Count  de  la  Marck,  with  a  sigh, 
"  it  may  be  that  in  the  hand  of  this  renegade  lies  the  future 
of  your  son." 


256  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

The  queen  trembled,  and  the  proud  expression  on  her 
features  was  softened. 

"The  future  of  my  son?"  said  she.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  that?  What  has  Count  Mirabeau  to  do  with  the 
dauphin  ?  His  wrath  follows  us  only,  his  hatred  rests  upon 
us  alone !  I  grant  that  at  present  he  is  powerful,  but  over 
the  future  he  has  no  sway.  I  hope,  on  the  contrary,  that 
the  future  will  avenge  the  evil  that  Mirabeau  does  to  us 
in  the  present." 

"  But  how  does  it  help,  madame,  if  vengeance  hurries 
him  on?"  asked  Count  de  la  Marck,  sadly.  "The  temple 
which  Samson  pulled  down  was  not  built  again,  that  Sam- 
son might  be  taken  from  its  ruins;  it  remained  in  its  dust 
and  fragments,  and  its  glory  was  gone  forever.  Oh,  I  be- 
seech your  majesty,  do  not  listen  to  the  voice  of  your  right- 
eous indignation,  but  only  to  the  voice  of  prudence.  Mas- 
ter your  noble,  royal  heart,  and  seek  to  reconcile  your 
adversaries,  not  to  punish  them !" 

"What  do  you  desire  of  me?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette, 
in  amazement.  "  What  shall  I  do?" 

"Your  majesty  must  chain  the  lion,"  whispered  the 
count.  "  Your  majesty  must  have  the  grace  to  change 
Mirabeau  the  enemy  into  Mirabeau  the  devoted  ally  and 
friend!" 

"Impossible,  it  is  impossible!"  cried  the  queen,  in  hor- 
ror. "  I  cannot  descend  to  this.  I  never  can  view  with 
friendly  looks  this  monster  who  is  accountable  for  the  hor- 
rors of  those  October  days.  I  can  only  speak  of  this  man, 
who  has  created  his  reputation  out  of  his  crimes,  who  is  a 
faithless  son,  a  faithless  husband,  a  faithless  lover,  a  faith- 
less aristocrat,  and  a  faithless  royalist — I  can  only  speak  of 
him  in  words  of  loathing,  scorn,  and  horror!  No,  rather 
die  than  accept  assistance  from  Count  Mirabeau!  Do  you 
not  know,  count,  that  he  honors  me  his  queen  with  his 
enmity  and  his  contempt?  Is  it  not  Mirabeau  who  caused 
the  States-General  to  accept  the  words  'the  person  of  the 
king  is  inviolable,'  and  to  reject  the  words  'and  that  of  the 
queen?'  Was  it  not  Mirabeau  who  once,  when  my  friends 
exhorted  him  to  moderation,  and  besought  him  to  soften 
his  words  about  the  Queen  of  France,  had  the  grace  to  an- 
swer with  a  shrug,  'Well,  she  may  keep  her  life!'  Was  it 


MIRABEAU.  257 

not  Mirabeau  who  was  to  blame  for  the  October  days?  Was 
it  not  Mirabeau  who  publicly  said :  '  The  king  and  the 
queen  are  lost.  The  people  hate  them  so,  that  they  would 
even  destroy  their  corpses?'  "  * 

"  Your  majesty,  Mirabeau  said  that,  not  as  a  threat,  but 
out  of  pity,  and  deep  concern  and  sympathy." 

"Sympathy!"  repeated  the  queen,  "Mirabeau,  who 
hates  us!" 

"  No,  your  majesty,  Mirabeau,  who  honors  his  queen,  who 
is  ready  to  give  his  life  for  you  and  for  the  monarchy,  if 
your  majesty  will  forgive  him  and  receive  him  as  a  defender 
of  the  throne!" 

The  queen  shuddered,  and  looked  in  astonishment  and 
terror  at  the  excited  face  of  Count  de  la  Marck.  "  Are  you 
speaking  of  Mirabeau,  the  tribune  of  the  people,"  she 
asked,  "the  fiery  orator  of  the  National  Assembly?" 

"  I  am  speaking  of  Count  Mirabeau,  who  yesterday  was 
the  enemy  of  the  throne,  and  who  to-day  will  be  a  zealous 
defender,  if  your  majesty  will  only  have  it  so — if  your 
majesty  will  only  speak  a  gracious  word  to  him." 

"  It  is  impossible,  it  is  impossible!"  whispered  the  queen. 

De  la  Marck  continued :  "  Since  he  has  frequently  seen 
your  majesty — since  he  has  had  occasion  to  observe  your 
proud  spirit  and  lofty  resignation — a  change  has  taken 
place  in  the  character  of  Mirabeau.  He  is  subdued  as  the 
lion  is  subdued,  when  the  beaming  eye  of  a  pure  soul  looks 
it  in  the  face.  He  might  be  of  service  again,  he  might  be 
reconciled !  He  writes,  he  speaks  of  his  exalted  queen  with 
admiration,  with  enthusiasm ;  he  glows  with  a  longing  de- 
sire to  confess  his  sins  at  the  feet  of  your  majesty,  and  to 
receive  your  forgiveness." 

"Does  the  king  know  this?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette. 
"  Has  any  one  told  his  majesty?" 

"  I  should  not  have  taken  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  your 
majesty  about  these  things  if  the  king  had  not  authorized 
me,"  replied  Count  de  la  Marck,  bowing.  "  His  majesty 
recognizes  it  to  be  a  necessary  duty  to  gain  Mirabeau  to  the 
throne,  and  he  hopes  to  have  in  this  matter  the  cooperation 
of  his  exalted  wife." 

Marie  Antoinette  sadly  shook  her  head.     "  I  will  speak 

*Thf»  queen's  own  words.— See  Goncourt,  "Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  905. 


258  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

with  his  majesty  about  it,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  only 
under  circumstances  of  extreme  urgency  can  I  submit  to 
this,  I  tell  you  in  advance." 

But  the  case  was  of  extreme  urgency,  and  when  Marie 
Antoinette  had  seen  it  to  be  so,  she  kept  her  word  and  con- 
formed to  it,  and  commissioned  Count  de  la  Marck  to  tell 
his  friend  Mirabeau  that  the  queen  would  grant  him  an 
audience. 

But  in  order  that  this  audience  might  be  of  advantage, 
it  must  be  conducted  with  the  deepest  secrecy.  No  one 
ought  to  suspect  that  Mirabeau,  the  tribune  of  the  people, 
the  adored  hero  of  the  revolution — Mirabeau,  who  ruled 
the  National  Assembly,  and  Paris  itself,  whom  the  freest 
of  the  free  hailed  as  their  apostle  and  saviour,  who  with  the 
power  of  his  eloquence  ruled  the  spirits  of  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  men, — no  one  could  suspect  that 
the  leader  of  the  revolution  would  now  become  the  devoted 
dependant  upon  the  monarchy,  and  the  paid  servant  of  the 

king- 
Two  conditions  Mirabeau  had  named,  when  Count  de  la 
Marck  had  tried  to  gain  him  over  in  the  name  of  the  king : 
an  audience  with  the  queen,  and  the  payment  of  his  debts, 
together  with  a  monthly  pension  of  a  hundred  louis-d'or. 

"I  am  paid,  but  not  bought,"  said  Mirabeau,  as  he  re- 
ceived his  first  payment.  "  Only  one  of  my  conditions  is 
fulfilled,  but  what  will  become  of  the  other?" 

"  And  so  you  still  insist  on  having  an  audience  with  the 
queen?"  asked  La  Marck. 

"Yes,  I  insist  upon  it,"  said  Mirabeau,  with  flaming 
eyes.  "  If  I  am  to  battle  and  speak  for  this  monarchy,  I 
must  learn  to  respect  it.  If  I  am  to  believe  in  the  possi- 
bility of  restoring  it,  I  must  believe  in  its  capacity  of  life ; 
I  must  see  that  I  have  to  deal  with  a  brave,  decided,  noble 
man.  The  true  and  real  king  here  is  Marie  Antoinette ; 
and  there  is  only  one  man  in  the  whole  surroundings  of 
Louis  XVI.,  and  that  is  his  wife.  I  must  speak  with  her, 
in  order  to  hear  and  to  see  whether  she  is  worth  the  risking 
of  my  life,  honor,  and  popularity.  If  she  really  is  the 
heroine  that  I  hold  her  to  be,  we  will  both  united  save  the 
monarchy,  and  the  throne  of  Louis  XVI.,  whose  king  is 
Marie  Antoinette.  The  moment  is  soon  to  come  when  we 


MIRABEAU.  259 

shall  learn  what  a  woman  and  a  child  can  accomplish,  and 
whether  the  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa  with  the  dauphin 
in  her  arms  cannot  stir  the  hearts  of  the  French  as  her 
great  mother  once  stirred  the  Hungarians."  * 

"Do  you  then  believe  the  danger  is  so  great,"  asked  La 
Marck,  "  that  it  is  necessary  to  resort  to  extreme,  heroic 
measures?" 

Mirabeau  grasped  his  arm  with  a  sudden  movement,  and 
an  expression  of  solemn  earnestness  filled  his  lion-like  face. 
"I  am  convinced  of  it,"  he  answered,  "and  I  will  add,  the 
danger  is  so  great,  that  if  we  do  not  soon  meet  it  and  in 
heroic  fashion,  it  will  not  be  possible  to  control  it.  There 
is  no  other  security  for  the  queen  than  through  the  re- 
ustablishment  of  the  royal  authority.  I  believe  of  her, 
that  she  does  not  desire  life  without  her  crown,  and  I  am 
certain  that,  in  order  to  keep  her  life,  she  must  before  all 
things  preserve  her  crown.  And  I  will  help  her  and  stand 
by  her  in  it;  and  for  this  end  I  must  myself  speak  with 
her  and  have  an  audience."  f 

And  Mirabeau,  the  first  man  in  the  revolution  had  his 
audience  with  Marie  Antoinette,  the  dying  champion  of 
monarchy. 

On  the  3rd  of  July,  1790,  the  meeting  of  the  queen  and 
Mirabeau  took  place  in  the  park  of  St.  Cloud.  Secrecy 
and  silence  surrounded  them,  and  extreme  care  had  been 
taken  to  let  no  one  suspect,  excepting  a  few  intimate 
friends,  what  was  taking  place  on  this  sequestered,  leaf- 
embowered  grass-plat  of  St.  Cloud. 

A  bench  of  white  marble,  surrounded  by  high  oleander 
and  taxus  trees,  stood  at  the  side  of  this  grass-plat.  It  was 
the  throne  on  which  Marie  Antoinette  should  receive  the 
homage  of  her  new  knight.  Mirabeau  had  on  the  day  be- 
fore gone  from  Paris  to  the  estate  of  his  niece,  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Aragan.  There  he  spent  the  night ;  and  the 
next  morning,  accompanied  by  his  nephew,  M.  de  Saillant, 
he  walked  to  the  park  of  St.  Cloud. 

At  the  nether  gate  of  the  park,  which  had  been  left  open 
for  this  secret  visit,  Mirabeau  took  leave  of  his  companion, 
and  extended  him  his  hand. 

*Mirabeau's  own  words.— See  "Marie  Antoinette  et  sa  Famille."  Par  M. 
de  Lescure,  p.  478. 

t  Mirabeau's  own  words.  —See  Count  de  la  Marck,  "  Mirabeau,"  vol.  ill. ,  p.  8(X 


260  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  and  his  voice,  which  so  often 
had  made  the  windows  of  the  assembly  hall  shake  with  its 
thunder,  was  now  weak  and  tremulous,  "  I  do  not  know 
why  this  dreadful  presentiment  creeps  over  me  all  at  once, 
and  why  voices  whisper  to  me,  'Turn  back,  Mirabeau,  turn 
back!  Do  not  step  over  the  threshold  of  this  door,  for 
there  you  are  stepping  into  your  open  grave!' ' 

"Follow  this  voice,  uncle,  there  is  still  time,"  implored 
M.  de  Saillant;  "it  is  with  me  as  it  is  with  you.  I,  too, 
have  a  sad,  anxious  feeling!" 

"  May  they  not  have  laid  snares  for  me  here?"  whispered 
Mirabeau,  thoughtfully.  "  They  are  capable  of  every  thing, 
these  artful  Bourbons.  Who  knows  whether  they  have  not 
invited  me  here  to  take  me  prisoner,  and  to  cast  me,  whom 
they  hold  to  be  their  most  dangerous  enemy,  into  one  of 
their  oubliettes,  their  subterranean  dungeons?  My  friend," 
he  continued,  hastily,  "  wait  for  me  here,  and  if  in  two  or 
three  hours  I  do  not  return,  hasten  to  Paris,  go  to  the 
National  Assembly,  and  announce  to  them  that  Mirabeau, 
moved  by  the  queen's  cry  of  distress,  has  gone  to  St.  Cloud, 
and  is  there  held  a  prisoner." 

"I  will  do  it,  uncle,"  said  the  marquis,  "but  I  do  not 
believe  in  any  such  treachery  on  the  part  of  the  queen  or 
her  husband.  They  both  know  that  without  Mirabeau 
they  are  certainly  lost,  and  that  he,  perhaps,  is  able  to  save 
them.  I  fear  something  entirely  different." 

"And  what  do  you  fear?" 

"I  fear  your  enemies  in  the  National  Assembly,"  said 
M.  de  Saillant,  and  with  a  pained  expression.  •'  I  fear 
these  enraged  republicans,  who  have  begun  to  mistrust  you 
since  you  have  begun  to  speak  in  favor  of  royalty  and  mon- 
archy, and  since  you  have  even  ventured  to  defend  the 
queen  personally  against  the  savage  and  mean  attacks  which 
Marat  hurls  against  Marie  Antoinette  in  his  journal,  the 
Ami  du  Peuple." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Mirabeaa,  with  a  smile,  "they  have 
mistrusted  me,  these  enraged  republicans,  since  then,  and 
they  tell  me  that  Petion,  this  republican  of  steel  and  iron, 
turned  to  Danton  at  the  close  of  my  speech,  and  said: 
'This  Mirabeau  is  dangerous  to  liberty,  for  there  is  too 
much  of  the  blood  of  the  count  flowing  through  the  veins 


MIRABEAU.  261 

of  the  tribune  of  the  people. '  Danton  answered  him  with 
a  smile :  '  In  that  case  we  must  draw  off  the  count's  blood 
from  the  tribune  of  the  people,  that  he  may  either  be  cured 
of  his  reactionary  disease  or  die  of  it!' ' 

"  And  when  they  told  Marat,  uncle,  that  you  had  spoken 
angrily  and  depreciatingly  of  his  attacks  upon  the  queen, 
he  raised  his  fist  threateningly,  and  cried:  'Mirabeau  is 
a  traitor,  who  wants  to  sell  our  new,  young  liberty  to  the 
monarchy.  But  he  will  meet  the  fate  of  Judas,  who  sold 
the  Saviour.  He  will  one  day  atone  for  it  with  his  head, 
for  if  we  tap  him  for  his  treachery,  we  shall  do  for  him 
what  Judas  did  for  himself.  This  Mirabeau  Judas  must 
take  care  of  himself. '  ' 

"  And  do  you  suppose  that  this  disputatious  little  toad 
of  a  Marat  will  hang  me?"  asked  Mirabeau,  with  a  scornful 
smile. 

"I  think  that  you  must  watch  him,"  answered  M.  de 
Saillant.  "  Last  evening,  in  the  neighborhood  of  our  villa, 
I  met  two  disguised  men,  who,  I  would  swear,  were  Petion 
and  Marat ;  and  on  our  way  here,  as  I  looked  around,  I 
feel  certain  that  I  saw  these  same  disguised  figures  follow- 
ing us!" 

"  What  if  it  be?"  answered  Mirabeau,  raising  himself 
up,  and  looking  around  him  with  a  proud  glance.  "  The 
lion  does  not  fear  the  annoying  insect  that  buzzes  about 
him,  he  shakes  it  off  with  his  mane  or  destroys  it  with  a 
single  stroke  of  his  paw.  And  Mirabeau  fears  just  as  little 
such  insects  as  Petion  and  Marat;  they  would  much  better 
keep  out  of  his  way.  I  will  tread  them  under  foot,  that  is 
all!  And  now,  farewell,  my  dear  nephew,  farewell,  and 
wait  for  me  here!" 

He  nodded  familiarly  to  his  nephew,  passed  over  the 
threshold,  and  entered  the  park,  from  whose  entrance  the 
popular  indignation  had  long  since  removed  the  obnoxious 
words,  De  par  la  Reine,  the  garden  belonging  now  to  the 
king  only  because  the  nation  willed  it  so. 

Mirabeau  hastened  with  an  anxious  mind  and  a  light 
step  along  the  walk,  and  again  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  dark 
spirits  were  whispering  to  him,  "Turn  back,  Mirabeau, 
turn  back !  for  with  every  step  forward  you  are  only  going 
deeper  into  your  grave."  He  stopped,  and  with  his  hand- 


262  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

kerchief  wiped  away  the  drops  of  cold  sweat  which  gathered 
upon  his  forehead. 

"It  is  folly,"  he  said,  "perfect  folly.  "Truly  I  am  as 
tremulous  as  a  girl  going  to  her  first  rendezvous.  Shame 
on  you,  Mirabeau,  be  a  man!" 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  he  wanted  to  dispel  these  evil 
forebodings,  and  hastened  forward  to  meet  Count  de  la 
Marck,  who  appeared  at  the  bending  of  the  allee. 

"  The  queen  is  already  here,  and  is  waiting  for  you,  Mi- 
rabeau," said  the  marquis,  with  a  slight  reproach  in  his 
voice. 

Mirabeau  shrugged  his  shoulders  instead  of  replying, 
and  went  on  more  rapidly.  There  soon  opened  in  front  of 
them  a  small  grass-plat,  surrounded  by  bushes,  and  on  the 
bench  opposite,  the  lady  in  the  white,  neat  dress,  with  a 
straw  hat  on  her  arm,  her  hair  veiled  with  black  lace — 
that  lady  was  Marie  Antoinette. 

Mirabeau  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  fixed  a  long,  search- 
ing look  upon  her.  When  he  turned  again  to  his  friend, 
his  face  was  pale,  and  bore  plain  traces  of  emotion. 

"My  friend,"  whispered  he  to  La  Marck,  "I  know  not 
why,  but  I  have  a  strange  feeling !  I  have  not  wept  since 
the  day  on  which  my  father  drove  me  with  a  curse  from 
the  house  of  my  ancestors,  but,  seeing  yonder  woman,  I 
could  weep,  and  an  unspeakable  sympathy  fills  my  soul." 

The  queen  had  seen  him,  too,  and  had  grown  pale,  and 
turned  tremblingly  to  the  king,  who  stood  beside  her,  half 
concealed  by  the  foliage. 

"There  is  the  dreadful  man!"  said  Marie  Antoinette, 
with  a  shudder.  "My  God!  a  thrill  of  horror  creeps 
through  all  my  veins,  and  if  I  only  look  at  this  monster,  I 
have  a  feeling  as  though  I  should  sicken  with  loathing!"  * 

"  Courage,  my  dear  Marie,  courage,"  whispered  the  king. 
"  Remember  that  the  welfare  of  our  future,  and  of  our 
children,  perhaps,  depends  upon  this  interview.  See,  he 
is  approaching.  Receive  him  kindly,  Marie.  I  will  draw 
back,  for  you  alone  shall  have  the  honor  of  this  day,  and 
monarchy  has  in  you  its  fairest  representative." 

"  But  remain  so  near  me,  sire,  that  you  can  hear  me  if  I 
call  for  help,"  whispered  Marie  Antoinette. 

*  The  queen's  own  words.— See  "Madame  de  Campan,"  vol.  ii. 


MIRABEAU.  263 

The  king  smiled.  "  Fear  nothing,  Marie,"  he  said,  "  and 
believe  that  the  danger  for  Mirabeau  is  greater  than  for 
you.  The  name  of  criminal  will  be  fastened  not  to  us,  but 
to  Mirabeau,  if  it  shall  be  known  that  he  has  come  to  visit 
us  here.  I  will  withdraw,  for  there  is  Mirabeau." 

And  the  king  withdrew  into  the  thicket,  while  Mirabeau 
stopped  near  the  queen,  and  saluted  her  with  a  profound 
bow. 

Marie  Antoinette  rose  from  her  marble  seat.  At  this 
moment  she  was  not  the  queen  giving  an  audience,  but  the 
anxious  lady,  advancing  to  meet  danger,  and  desirous  to 
mitigate  it  by  politeness  and  smiles. 

"  Come  nearer,  count,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  still  stand- 
ing. But  as  he  approached,  the  queen  sank  slowly  upon 
the  seat,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  Mirabeau,  with  an  almost 
timid  look,  who  now  did  not  seem  to  her  a  monster,  for 
his  mien  was  disturbed,  and  his  eyes,  which  had  always 
been  represented  as  so  fearful,  had  a  gentle,  respectful 
expression. 

"Count,"  said  the  queen,  and  her  voice  trembled  a  lit- 
tle— "  count,  if  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  an  ordinary 
enemy,  a  man  who  was  aiming  at  the  destruction  of  mon- 
archy, without  seeing  of  what  use  it  is  for  the  people,  I 
should  be  taking  at  this  moment  a  very  useless  step.  But 
when  one  talks  with  a  Mirabeau,  one  is  beyond  the  ordinary 
conditions  of  prudence,  and  hope  of  his  assistance  is  blended 
with  wonder  at  the  act. "  * 

"Madame,"  cried  Mirabeau,  deeply  moved,  "I  have  not 
come  here  as  your  enemy,  but  as  your  davoted  servant,  who 
is  ready  cheerfully  to  give  his  life  if  he  can  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  the  monarchy." 

"  You  believe,  then,  that  it  is  a  question  of  life,  or,  if 
you  prefer,  of  death,  which  stands  between  the  French 
people  and  the  monarchy?"  asked  the  queen,  sadly. 

"Yes,  I  am  convinced  of  that,"  answered  Mirabeau. 
"But  I  still  hope  that  we  can  answer  the  question  in  favor 
of  the  monarchy,  provided  that  the  right  means  are  applied 
in  season." 

"  And  what,  according  to  your  views,  are  the  right 
means,  count?" 

*  The  queen's  own  words.— See  "Marie  Antoinette  et  sa  Famille."  Par  M. 
de  Lescure,  p.  484. 


264  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Mirabeau  smiled  and  looked  with  amazement  into  the 
noble  face  of  the  queen,  who,  with  such  easy  composure, 
had  put  into  this  one  short  question  what  for  centuries  had 
perplexed  the  greatest  thinkers  and  statesmen  to  answer. 

"  Will  your  majesty  graciously  pardon  me  if  I  crave  per- 
mission, before  I  answer,  to  put  a  question  in  like  manner 
to  my  exalted  queen?" 

"Ask  on,  count,"  replied  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a 
gentle  inclination  of  her  head. 

"Well,  madame,  this  is  .my  question:  'Does  your 
majesty  purpose  and  aim  at  the  reestablishment  of  the  old 
regime,  and  do  you  deem  it  possible  to  roll  the  chariot  of 
human  history  and  of  politics  backward?'  " 

"You  have  in  your  question  given  the  answer  as  well," 
said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  sigh.  "  It  is  impossible  to 
reerect  the  same  edifice  out  of  its  own  ruins.  One  must 
be  satisfied  if  out  of  them  a  house  can  be  built,  in  which 
one  can  manage  to  live." 

"Ah,  your  majesty,"  said  Mirabeau,  with  feeling,  "this 
answer  is  the  first  ray  of  light  which  breaks  through  the 
heavy  storm-clouds!  The  new  day  can  be  descried  and 
hailed  with  delight!  After  hearing  this  noble  answer  of 
your  majesty,  I  look  up  comforted,  and  the  clouds  do  not 
terrify  me  longer,  for  I  know  that  they  will  soon  be  past — 
that  is,  if  we  employ  the  right  means." 

"  And  now  I  repeat  my  question,  count,  WThat,  accord- 
ing to  your  view,  are  the  right  means?" 

"First  of  all,  the  recognition  of  what  is  wrong,"  an- 
swered Mirabeau,  "  and  then  the  cheerful  and  honest  will 
to  do  what  is  found  to  be  necessary." 

"  Well,  tell  me,  what  is  it  that  is  wrong?" 

Mirabeau  bowed,  and  then  began  to  speak  to  her  in  his 
clear,  sharp  way,  which  was  at  the  same  time  so  full  of 
energy,  of  the  situation  of  France,  the  relation  of  the  vari- 
ous political  parties  to  one  another,  to  the  court,  and  the 
throne.  In  strongly  outlined  sentences  he  characterized 
the  chiefs  of  the  political  clubs,  the  leaders  of  the  parties 
in  the  National  Assembly,  and  spoke  of  the  perilous  goal 
which  the  demagogues,  the  men  of  the  extreme  Left, 
aimed  at.  He  did  not,  from  delicacy,  speak  the  word 
"republican,"  but  he  gave  the  queen  to  understand  that 


MIRABEAU.  265 

the  destruction  of  the  monarchy  and  the  throne,  the  anni- 
hilation of  the  royal  family,  was  the  ultimate  object  aimed 
at  by  all  the  raving  orators  and  leaders  of  the  extreme 
Left. 

The  queen  had  listened  to  him  with  eager,  fixed  atten- 
tion, and,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  dignified  composure ; 
and  the  earnest,  thoughtful  look  of  her  large  eyes  had  pen- 
etrated and  moved  Mirabeau  more  and  more,  so  that  his 
words  came  from  his  lips  like  a  stream  of  fire,  and  kindled 
a  new  hope  even  in  himself. 

"All  will  yet  be  well,"  he  cried,  in  conclusion;  "we 
shall  succeed  in  contending  with  the  hidden  powers  that 
wish  to  undermine  your  majesty's  throne,  and  to  take 
from  the  hands  of  your  enemies  these  dangerous  weapons 
of  destruction.  I  shall  apply  all  my  power,  all  my  elo- 
quence to  this.  I  will  oppose  the  undertakings  of  the 
demagogues ;  I  will  show  myself  to  be  their  public  oppo- 
nent, and  zealously  serve  the  monarchy,  making  use  of  all 
such  means  of  help  as  are  adapted  to  move  men's  minds, 
and  not  to  trouble  and  terrify  them,  as  if  freedom  and  self- 
government  were  to  be  taken  from  them,  and  yet  which 
will  restore  the  credit  and  power  of  the  monarchy." 

"Are  you,  then,  with  honest  and  upright  heart,  a  friend 
of  ours?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  almost  supplicatingly. 
"  Do  you  wish  to  assist  us,  and  stand  by  us,  with  your 
counsel  and  help?" 

Mirabeau  met  her  inquisitive  and  anxious  look  with  a 
cordial  smile,  a  noble  and  trustworthy  expression  of  face. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  with  his  fine,  resonant  voice,  "  I  de- 
fended monarchical  principles  when  I  saw  only  their  weak- 
ness, and  when  I  did  not  know  the  soul  nor  the  thoughts 
of  the  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa,  and  little  reckoned  upon 
having  such  an  exalted  mediator.  I  contended  for  the 
rights  of  the  throne  when  I  was  only  mistrusted,  when 
calumny  dogged  all  my  steps,  and  declared  me  guilty  of 
treachery!  I  served  the  monarchy,  then,  when  I  knew 
that  from  my  rightful,  but  misled  king,  I  should  receive 
neither  kindness  nor  reward.  What  shall  I  do  now,  when 
confidence  animates  my  spirit,  and  gratitude  has  made  my 
duties  run  directly  in  the  current  of  my  principles?  I 
shall  be  and  remain  what  I  have  always  been,  the  defender 


266  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

of  monarchy  governed  ly  law,  the  apostle  of  liberty  guaran- 
teed by  the  monarchy."  * 

"I  believe  you,  count,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette,  with 
emotion.  "  You  will  serve  us  with  fidelity  and  zeal,  and 
with  your  help  all  will  yet  be  well.  I  promise  you  that  we 
will  follow  your  counsels,  and  act  in  concord  with  you. 
You  will  put  yourself  in  communication  with  the  king; 
you  will  consult  him  about  needful  matters,  and  advise 
him  about  the  things  which  are  essential  to  his  welfare  and 
that  of  the  people." 

"  Madame, "  replied  Mirabeau,  "I  take  the  liberty  of 
adding  this  to  what  has  already  been  said.  The  most 
necessary  thing  is  that  the  royal  court  leave  Paris  for  a 
season!" 

"  That  we  flee?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  hastily. 

"Not  flee,  but  withdraw,"  answered  Mirabeau.  "The 
exasperated  people  menace  the  monarchy,  and  therefore 
the  threatened  crown  must  for  a  while  be  concealed  from 
the  people's  sight,  that  they  may  be  brought  back  to  a 
sense  of  duty  and  loyalty.  And,  therefore,  I  do  not  say 
that  the  court  must  flee ;  I  only  say  it  must  leave  Paris,  for 
Paris  is  the  furnace  of  the  revolution!  The  royal  court 
must  withdraw,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  the  very  boundaries 
of  France !  It  must  there  gather  an  army,  and  put  it  under 
the  command  of  some  faithful  general,  and  with  this  army 
march  against  the  riotous  capital;  and  I  will  be  there  to 
smooth  the  way  and  open  the  gates!" 

"I  thank  you,  count,  I  thank  you!"  cried  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, rising  from  her  seat.  "  Now,  I  doubt  no  more  about 
the  future,  for  my  own  thoughts  coincide  with  those  of  our 
greatest  statesmen !  I,  too,  am  convinced  the  court  ought 
to  leave  Paris — that  it  must  withdraw,  in  order  to  escape 
new  humiliations,  and  that  it  ought  to  return  only  in  the 
splendor  of  its  power,  and  with  an  army  to  put  the  rebels 
to  flight,  and  breathe  courage  into  the  timid  and  faithful. 
Oh !  you  must  tell  the  king  all  this ;  you  must  show  him 
that  our  removal  from  Paris  is  not  only  a  means  of  sal- 
vation to  the  crown,  but  to  the  people  as  well.  Your 
words  will  convince  the  noblest  and  best  of  monarchs ;  he 

*  Mirabeau's  own  words.— See  "MCmolres  clu  Comte  de  Mirabeau."  voL 
Hi.,  p.  280. 


MIRABEAU.  267 

will  follow  your  counsels,  and,  thanks  to  you,  not  we  alone, 
but  the  monarchy  will  be  saved!  No,  go  to  the  work, 
count!  Be  active  in  our  behalf;  bring  your  unbounded 
influence,  in  favor  of  the  king  and  queen,  to  bear  upon  all 
spirits,  and  be  sure  that  we  shall  be  grateful  to  you  so  long 
as  we  live.  Farewell,  and  remember  that  my  eye  will  fol- 
low all  your  steps,  and  that  my  ears  will  hear  every  word 
which  Mirabeau  shall  speak  in  the  National  Assembly." 

Mirabeau  bowed  respectfully.  "Madame,"  said  he, 
"  when  your  exalted  mother  condescended  to  favor  one  of 
her  subjects  with  an  audience,  she  never  dismissed  him 
without  permitting  the  favored  one  respectfully  to  kiss  her 
hand." 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  "  and  in  this,  at  least,  I  can  follow  the  example  of 
my  great  mother!" 

And,  with  inimitable  grace,  the  queen  extended  her  hand 
to  him,  Mirabeau,  enraptured,  beside  himself  at  this  dis- 
play of  courtesy  and  favor,  dropped  upon  his  knee  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  delicate,  white  hand  of  the  queen. 

"  Madame,"  cried  he,  with  warmth,  "  this  kiss  saves  the 
monarchy!"* 

"  If  you  have  spoken  the  truth,  sir,"  said  the  queen,  with 
a  sigh,  rising  and  dismissing  him,  with  a  gentle  inclination 
of  her  head. 

With  excited  and  radiant  looks,  Mirabeau  returned  to 
his  nephew,  who  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  gate  of  the 
park. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  with  a  breath  of  relief,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  shoulder  of  Saillant,  "  what  have  I  not  heard  and 
seen!  She  is  very  great,  very  noble,  and  very  unhappy, 
Victor!  But,"  cried  he,  with  a  loud,  earnest  voice,  "I 
will  save  her — I  will  save  her!"  f 

Mirabeau  was  in  earnest  in  this  purpose;  and  not  be- 
cause he  had  been  bought  over,  but  because  he  had  been 
won — carried  away  with  the  noble  aspect  of  the  queen — 
did  he  become  from  this  time  a  zealous  defender  of  the 
monarchy,  an  eloquent  advocate  in  behalf  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette. But  he  was  not  now  able  to  restrain  the  dashing 

*Mirabeau's  own  words.— See  "Memoiresde  Mirabeau,"  vol  iv. ,  p.  208. 
t"  Marie  Antoinette  et  sa  Famille,"  p480. 

10 


268  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

waves  of  revolution ;  he  could  not  even  save  himself  from 
being  engulfed  in  these  raging  waves. 

Mirabeau  knew  it  well,  and  made  no  secret  of  the  peril 
of  his  position.  On  the  day  when,  before  the  division,  he 
spoke  in  defence  of  the  monarchy  and  the  royal  preroga- 
tive, and  undertook  to  decide  the  question  of  peace  or 
war — on  that  day  he  first  announced  himself  openly  for  the 
king,  and  raised  a  storm  of  excitement  and  disgust  in  the 
National  Assembly.  Still  he  spoke  right  bravely  in  behalf 
of  the  crown;  and  while  doing  so,  he  cried,  "  I  know  well 
that  it  is  only  a  single  step  from  the  capitol  to  the  Tarpeian 
rock !" 

Step  after  step!  And  these  successive  steps  Mirabeau 
was  soon  to  take.  Petion  had  not  in  vain  characterized 
Mirabeau  as  the  most  dangerous  enemy  of  the  republic. 
Marat  had  not  asserted,  without  knowing  what  he  said, 
that  Mirabeau  must  let  all  his  aristocratic  blood  flow  from 
his  veins,  or  bleed  to  death  altogether!  Not  with  impunity 
could  Mirabeau  encounter  the  rage  of  parties,  and  fling 
down  the  gauntlet  before  them,  saying,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, "  He  would  defend  the  monarchy  against  all  attacks, 
from  what  side  soever,  and  from  what  part  soever  of  the 
kingdom  they  might  come." 

The  leaders  of  the  republican  factions  knew  very  well 
how  to  estimate  the  power  of  Mirabeau ;  they  knew  very 
well  that  Mirabeau  was  able  to  fit  together  the  fragments 
of  the  crown  which  he  had  helped  to  break.  And,  to  pre- 
vent his  doing  this,  they  knew  that  he  must  be  buried  be- 
neath these  fragments. 

Soon  after  his  interview  with  the  queen — after  his  dis- 
senting speech  in  behalf  of  the  prerogative  of  the  king — 
Mirabeau  began  to  fail  in  health.  His  enemies  said  that 
it  was  only  the  result  of  over-exertion,  and  a  cold  which  he 
had  brought  on  by  drinking  a  glass  of  cold  water  during  a 
speech  in  the  National  Assembly.  His  friends  whispered 
about  a  deadly  poison  which  had  been  mingled  with  this 
glass  of  water,  in  order  to  rid  themselves  of  this  powerful 
and  dangerous  opponent. 

Mirabeau  believed  this;  and  the  increasing  torpor  of  his 
limbs,  the  pains  which  he  felt  in  his  bowels,  appeared  to  him 
to  be  the  sure  indications  of  poison  given  him  by  his  enemies. 


MIRABEAU.  269 

The  lion,  who  had  been  willing  to  crouch  at  the  foot  of 
the  throne  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  it,  was  now  nothing 
but  a  poor,  sick  man,  whose  voice  was  lost,  and  whose 
power  was  extinguished.  For  a  season  he  sought  to  con- 
tend against  the  malady  which  was  lurking  in  his  body; 
but  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  a  speech  which  he  was  making 
in  behalf  of  the  queen,  he  sank  in  a  fainting-fit,  and  was 
carried  unconsciously  to  his  dwelling.  After  long  efforts 
on  the  part  of  his  physician,  the  celebrated  Cabanis,  Mira- 
beau opened  his  eyes.  Consciousness  was  restored,  but 
with  it  a  fixed  premonition  of  his  approaching  death. 

"I  am  dying!"  he  said,  softly.  "I  am  bearing  in  my 
heart  the  funeral  crape  of  the  monarchy.  These  raging 
partisans  want  to  pluck  it  out,  deride  it,  and  fasten  it  to 
their  own  foreheads.  And  this  compels  them  to  break  my 
heart,  and  this  they  have  done!"  * 

Yes,  they  had  broken  it — this  great  strong  heart,  in 
which  the  funeral  crape  of  monarchy  lay.  At  first  the 
physician  and  his  friends  hoped  that  it  might  be  possible 
to  overcome  his  malady,  but  Mirabeau  was  not  flattered  by 
any  such  hope ;  he  felt  that  the  pains  which  were  racking 
his  body  would  end  only  with  death. 

After  one  especially  painful  and  distressing  night,  Mira- 
beau had  his  physician  Cabanis  and  his  friend  Count  de  la 
Marck  summoned  to  his  bed,  and  extended  to  them  both 
his  hands.  "My  friends,"  he  said  to  them  with  gentle 
voice  and  with  peaceful  face,  "  my  friends,  I  am  going  to 
die  to-day.  When  one  has  been  brought  to  that  pass,  there 
is  only  one  thing  that  remains  to  be  done :  to  be  perfumed, 
tastefully  dressed,  and  surrounded  with  flowers,  so  as  to 
fall  agreeably  into  that  last  sleep  from  which  there  is  no 
waking.  So,  call  my  servants !  I  must  be  shaved,  dressed, 
and  nicely  arrayed.  The  window  must  be  opened,  that 
the  warm  air  may  stream  in,  and  then  flowers  must  be 
brought.  I  want  to  die  in  the  sunshine  and  flowers."  f 

His  friends  did  not  venture  to  oppose  his  last  wish.  The 
gladiator  wanted  to  make  his  last  toilet  and  be  elaborately 
arrayed  in  order  to  fall  in  the  arena  of  life  as  a  hero  falls, 
and  even  in  death  to  excite  the  wonder  and  the  applause  of 
the  public. 

*  Mirabeau 'S  own  words.— See  "M6moires  sur  Mirabeau,"  vol.  iv.,  p.  296. 
tMirabeau's  words.— See  "M6moires sur  Mirabeau,"  vol.  iv.,  p.  296. 


MAEIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

All  Paris  was  in  this  last  scene  the  public  of  this  gladi- 
ator ;  all  Paris  had,  in  these  last  days  of  his  battle  for  life, 
only  one  thought,  "How  is  it  with  Mirabeau?  Will  he 
compel  the  dreadful  enemy  Death  to  retire  from  before 
him,  or  will  he  fall  as  the  prey  of  Death?"  This  question 
was  written  on  all  faces,  repeated  in  all  houses  and  in  all 
hearts.  Every  one  wanted  to  receive  an  answer  from  that 
still  house,  with  its  closely-drawn  curtains,  where  Mirabeau 
lived.  All  the  streets  which  led  thither  were,  during  the 
last  three  days  before  his  death,  filled  with  a  dense  mass  of 
men,  and  no  carriage  was  permitted  to  drive  through  the 
neighborhood,  lest  it  should  disturb  Mirabeau.  The  thea- 
tres were  closed,  and,  without  any  consultation  together, 
the  merchants  shut  their  stores  as  they  do  on  great  days  of 
national  fasting  or  thanksgiving. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  before  life  had  begun 
to  move  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  before  the  houses  were 
opened,  a  cry  was  heard  in  the  great  highways  of  the  city, 
ringing  up  into  all  the  houses,  and  entering  all  the  agitated 
hearts  that  heard  it :  "  Flowers,  bring  flowers !  Mirabeau 
wants  flowers!  Bring  roses  and  violets  for  Mirabeau! 
Mirabeau  wants  to  die  amid  flowers!" 

This  cry  awoke  slumbering  Paris  the  2d  of  April,  1791, 
and,  as  it  resounded  through  the  streets,  windows  and  doors 
opened,  and  hundreds,  thousands  of  men  hastened  from 
all  directions  toward  Mirabeau 's  house,  carrying  nosegays, 
bouquets,  whole  baskets  of  flowers.  0»e  seemed  to  be 
transferred  from  cool,  frosty  spring  weather  to  the  warm, 
fragrant  days  of  summer;  all  the  greenhouses,  all  the 
chambers  poured  out  their  floral  treasures  to  prepare  one 
last  summer  day  for  the  dying  tribune  of  the  people.  His 
whole  house  was  filled  with  flowers  and  with  fragrance. 
The  hall,  the  staircase,  the  antechamber,  and  the  drawing- 
room  were  overflowing  with  flowers ;  and  there  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  drawing-room  lay  Mirabeau  upon  a  lounge,  care- 
fully dressed,  shaved  and  powdered,  as  if  for  a  royal  festival. 
The  most  beautiful  of  the  flowers,  the  fairest  exotics  sur- 
rounded his  couch,  and  bent  their  variegated  petals  down 
to  the  pale,  death -stricken  gladiator,  who  still  had  power 
to  summon  a  smile  to  his  lips,  and  with  one  last  look  of 
affection  to  bid  farewell  to  his  weeping  friends — farewell  to 
the  flowers  and  the  sunlight ! 


REVOLUTION   IN    THE   THEATRE.  271 

On  his  lofty  brow,  on  his  smiling  lips,  there  was  written, 
after  Death  had  claimed  him,  after  the  gladiator  had  fallen, 
"  The  dying  one  greets  you!" 

The  day  of  his  death  was  the  day  of  his  last  triumph ; 
and  the  flowers  that  all  Paris  sent  to  him,  were  to  Mirabeau 
the  parting  word  of  love  and  admiration ! 

Four  times  daily  the  king  had  sent  to  inquire  after  Mir- 
abeau's  welfare,  and  when  at  noon,  on  the  2d  of  April, 
Count  de  la  Marck  brought  the  tidings  of  his  death,  the 
king  turned  pale.  "  Disaster  is  hovering  over  us,"  he  said, 
sadly,  "  Death  too  arrays  himself  on  the  side  of  our  en- 
emies!" 

Marie  Antoinette  was  also  very  deeply  moved  by  the 
tidings.  "  He  wanted  to  save  us,  and  therefore  must  die ! 
The  burden  was  too  heavy,  the  pillar  has  broken  under  the 
weight;  the  temple  will  plunge  down  and  bury  us  beneath 
its  ruins,  if  we  do  not  hasten  to  save  ourselves!  Mirabeau's 
bequest  was  his  counsel  to  speedy  and  secret  flight !  We 
must  follow  his  advice,  we  must  remove  from  Paris.  May 
the  spirit  of  Mirabeau  enlighten  the  heart  of  the  king,  that 
he  may  be  willing  to  do  what  is  necessary, — that  he  may 
be  willing  to  leave  Paris!" 


CHAPTEK    XVIII. 

REVOLUTION  IN  THE  THEATRE. 

ALL  Paris  was  again  in  commotion,  fear,  and  uproar. 
The  furies  of  the  revolution,  the  market-women,  went 
howling  again  through  the  streets  on  the  20th  of  June, 
1791,  uttering  their  horrid  curses  upon  the  king  and  the 
Austrian  woman,  and  hurling  their  savage  words  and  dirty 
songs  against  Madame  Veto,  against  la  chienne  cTAutriche. 

Around  the  Tuileries  stood  in  immense  masses  the  corps 
of  the  National  Guard,  with  grave  and  threatening  mien, 
and  with  difficulty  holding  back  the  people,  who  were  fill- 
ing the  whole  broad  square  in  front  of  the  palace,  and  who 
could  only  with  great  effort  be  prevented  from  breaking 
through  those  strong  cordons  of  guards  who  held  both  ends 
of  the  street  leading  to  the  Tuileries,  and  kept  at  least  the 
middle  of  the  way  free  and  open. 


272  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

It  was  a  way  for  the  king,  the  queen,  and  the  royal  fam- 
ily, who  were  to  reenter  Paris  that  day.  Lafayette  had, 
at  the  order  of  the  National  Assembly,  gone  with  some 
regiments  of  the  guard  to  Varennes,  to  conduct  the  king 
back  to  the  capital.  Thousands  upon  thousands  had  hur- 
ried out  after  him  in  order  to  observe  this  return  of  the 
representatives  of  monarchy,  and  to  take  part  in  this 
funeral  procession! 

For  it  was  a  funeral  of  the  monarchy  which  was  cele- 
brated that  day;  and  this  great,  heavy  carriage,  sur- 
rounded by  soldiers,  and  the  ribald,  mocking  populace — 
this  great  carriage,  which  now  drove  along  the  streets  lead- 
ing to  the  Tuileries,  amid  the  thunder  of  cannon,  and  the 
peals  of  bells  from  towers,  was  the  funeral  car  of  monarchy. 

The  king,  the  queen,  the  royal  children,  the  sister  of 
the  king,  Madame  Tourzel,  and  the  two  deputies  whom  the 
National  Assembly  had  sent  to  Varennes  to  accompany  the 
royal  family,  Petion  and  Barnave,  were  in  this  carriage. 

They  had  tried  to  follow  the  advice  of  the  dying  Mira- 
beau,  and  to  save  themselves  from  the  revolution.  That 
was  the  offence  of  this  king  and  this  queen,  who  were  now 
brought  back  in  triumph  to  the  Tuileries,  the  palace  of 
kings,  and  from  that  time  a  royal  prison. 

Tri -colored  banners  waved  from  all  roofs  and  from  all 
windows;  placards  were  displayed  everywhere,  bearing  in 
immense  letters  the  words :  "  Whoever  applauds  the  king 
shall  be  scourged;  whover  insults  him  shall  be  hanged!" 

They  had  wished  to  escape,  these  unhappy  ones,  who 
are  now  brought  back  from  Varennes,  where  they  were 
identified  and  detained.  Now  they  were  returning,  no 
longer  the  masters,  but  the  prisoners  of  the  French  nation ! 
The  National  Assembly  had  passed  a  decree,  whose  first  ar- 
ticle was :  "  The  king  is  temporarily  set  aside  from  the 
functions  of  royalty;"  and  whose  second  and  third  articles 
were,  "  that  so  soon  as  the  king  and  his  family  shall  be 
brought  back  to  the  Tuileries,  a  provisional  watch  shall  be 
set  over  him,  as  well  as  over  the  queen  and  the  dauphin, 
which,  under  the  command  of  the  general-in-chief  of  the 
National  Guard  of  Paris,  shall  be  responsible  for  their 
safety  and  for  their  detention." 

The  king  and  the  queen  returned  to  Paris  as  prisoners, 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  273 

and  Lafayette  was  their  jailer.  The  master  of  France, 
the  many-headed  King  of  the  French  nation,  was  the  Na- 
tional Assembly. 

Sad,  dreadful  days  of  humiliation,  of  resignation,  of 
perils  and  anxieties,  now  followed  for  the  royal  family,  the 
prisoners  of  the  Tuileries,  who  were  watched  day  and  night 
by  spying  eyes,  and  whose  doors  must  remain  open  day  and 
night,  in  order  that  officers  on  guard  might  look  without 
hinderance  into  the  apartments  in  which  the  prisoners  of 
the  French  nation  lived. 

During  the  first  week  after  the  sad  return,  the  spirit  of 
the  queen  seemed  to  be  broken,  her  energies  to  be  impaired 
forever.  She  had  no  more  hope,  no  more  fear ;  she  threw 
out  no  new  plans  for  escaping,  she  neither  worked  nor 
wrote.  She  only  sat  still  and  sad  for  hours,  and  before 
her  eyes  passed  the  dreadful  pictures  of  the  time  just  gone 
by,  presenting  themselves  with  dreadful  vividness,  and  in 
the  recollection  anguishing  her  spirit.  She  recalled  the 
excitement  and  anxiety  of  the  day  which  preceded  the 
flight.  She  saw  herself,  as  with  trembling  hands  she  put 
on  the  garments  of  one  of  her  waiting-maids,  and  then  dis- 
guised the  dauphin  in  girl's  clothes;  she  heard  the  boy 
asking  anew,  with  his  pleasant  smile :  "  Are  we  going  to 
play  theatre,  mamma  queen?"  Then  she  saw  herself  on 
the  street  alone,  waiting  without  any  protection  or  com- 
pany for  the  carriage  which  was  to  take  her^^>,  after  tak- 
ing up  at  another  place  the  king  and  the  two  children. 
She  recalled  the  drive  in  the  dark  night,  the  heat  in  the 
close,  heavy  carriage,  the  dreadful  alarm  when  suddenly, 
after  a  twelve  hours'  drive,  the  carriage  broke,  and  all  dis- 
mounted to  climb  the  hill  to  the  village  which  lay  before 
them,  and  where  they  had  to  wait  till  the  carriage  could 
be  repaired.  Then  the  journey  on,  the  delay  in  Varennes, 
the  cry,  "They  are  recognized."  Then  the  confusion,  the 
march,  the  anguish  of  the  hours  following,  and  finally  that 
last  hour  of  hope  when,  in  the  poor  chamber  of  the  shop- 
keeper Sauce,  his  wife  standing  near  the  bed  on  which  the 
little  prince  slept,  she  conjured  his  wife  to  save  the  king 
and  find  him  a  hiding-place.  Then  she  heard  again  before 
her  ears  the  woman's  hard  voice  answering  her:  "Ma- 
dame, it  cannot  be ;  I  love  my  husband,  too,  and  I  also  have 


274  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

children,  but  my  husband  were  lost  if  I  saved  yours." 
Then  she  heard  afresh  the  cries,  the  march ;  saw  the  arrival 
of  the  Paris  regiments  and  the  deputies  whom  the  National 
Assembly  sent  to  conduct  the  royal  refugees  back  to  Paris. 
Then  she  recalled  the  drive  back,  crowded  into  the  carriage 
with  the  deputies,  and  the  ribald  populace  roaring  around. 
As  she  thought  of  all  these  things,  a  shudder  ran  through 
the  form  of  the  unhappy  queen,  and  tears  streamed  un- 
restrainedly from  her  eyes. 

But  gradually  she  gained  her  composure  and  spirit,  and 
even  the  daily  humiliation  and  trials  which  she  encountered 
awakened  in  her  the  fire  and  defiance  of  her  earlier  days. 

The  king  and  the  queen  were,  after  their  return  from 
Varennes,  the  prisoners  of  their  own  people,  and  the  Tuil- 
eries  formed  the  prison  in  which  with  never-sleeping  cru- 
elty the  people  watched  their  royal  captives. 

The  chiefs  of  the  battalions  constituting  the  National 
Guard  took  turns  in  sentry  duty  over  the  royal  couple. 
They  had  received  t-he  rigid  order  to  constantly  watch  the 
royal  family,  and  not  to  leave  them  for  a  moment  alone. 
Even  the  sleeping-room  of  the  queen  was  not  closed  to  the 
espionage  of  the  guards;  the  door  to  the  drawing-room 
close  by  had  always  to  be  open,  and  in  this  drawing-room 
was  the  officer  of  the  guard.  Even  in  the  night,  while  the 
queen  lay  in  her  bed,  this  door  remained  open,  and  the 
officer,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  directly  opposite  to  the  door, 
kept  his  eyes  directed  to  the  bed  in  which  the  queen  sought 
to  sleep,  and  wrestled  with  the  pains  and  fear  which  she 
was  too  proud  to  show  to  her  persecutors.  The  queen  had 
stooped  to  make  but  one  request;  she  had  asked  that  at 
least  in  the  morning,  when  she  arose  and  dressed,  she 
might  close  the  doors  of  her  sleeping-room,  and  they  had 
been  magnanimous  enough  to  comply  with  her  wish.* 

But  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  had  met  all  these  humili- 
ations, these  disenchantments,  and  trials,  full  of  hope  of 
a  change  in  her  fortune.  Her  proud  soul  was  still  un- 
broken, her  belief  in  the  victory  of  monarchy  under  the 
favor  of  God  animated  her  heart  with  a  last  ray  of  hope, 
and  sustained  her  amid  all  her  misfortune.  She  still  would 
contend  with  her  enemies  for  the  love  of  this  people,  of 

*  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  par  Edmondet  Jules  de  Goncourt,  p.  261. 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATEE.  275 

whom  she  hoped  that,  led  astray  by  Jacobins  and  agitators, 
they  would  at  last  confess  their  error,  respect  the  voice  of 
their  king  and  queen,  and  return  to  love  and  regretful- 
ness.  And  Marie  Antoinette  would  sustain  herself  in  view 
of  the  great  day  when  the  people's  love  should  be  given 
back ;  she  would  seek  to  bring  that  day  back,  and  reconcile 
the  people  to  the  throne.  On  this  account  she  would  show 
the  people  that  she  cherished  no  fear  of  them ;  that  she 
would  intrust  herself  with  perfect  confidence  to  them,  and 
greet  them  with  her  smiles  and  all  the  favor  of  former 
days.  She  would  make  one  more  attempt  to  regain  her 
old  popularity,  and  reawaken  in  their  cold  hearts  the  love 
which  the  people  had  once  displayed  to  her  by  their  loud 
acclamations.  She  found  power  in  herself  to  let  her  tears 
flow,  not  visibly,  but  within  her  heart;  to  disguise  with 
her  smile  the  pain  of  her  soul,  and  so  she  resolved  to  wear  a 
cheerful  and  pleasant  face,  and  appear  again  publicly  in  the 
theatre,  as  well  as  in  open  carriage-drives  through  the  city. 

They  were  then  giving  in  the  great  opera-house  Gluck's 
"  Alceste,"  the  favorite  opera  of  the  queen — the  opera  in 
which  a  few  years  before  she  had  received  so  splendid  a 
triumph ;  in  which  the  public  loudly  encored,  "  Chantons, 
celebrons  noire  reine!  "  which  the  choir  had  sung  upon  the 
stage,  and,  standing  with  faces  turned  toward  the  royal 
box,  had  mingled  their  voices  with  those  of  the  singers, 
and  repeated  in  a  general  chorus,  "  Chantons,  celebrons 
noire  reine!" 

"  I  will  try  whether  the  public  remembers  that  evening," 
said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  faint  smile,  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Bugois,  the  only  lady  who  had  been  permitted  to  remain 
with  her;  "  I  will  go  this  evening  to  the  opera;  the  public 
shall  at  least  see  that  I  intrust  myself  with  confidence  to 
it,  and  that  I  have  not  changed,  however  much  may  have 
been  changed  around." 

Mademoiselle  de  Bugois  looked  with  deep  sadness  at  the 
pale  face  of  the  queen,  that  would  show  the  public  that 
she  had  not  altered,  and  upon  which,  once  so  fair  and 
bright,  grief  had  recorded  its  ineradicable  characters,  and 
almost  extinguished  its  old  beauty.  Deeply  moved,  the 
waiting-lady  turned  away  in  order  not  to  let  the  tears  be 
seen  which,  against  her  will,  streamed  from  her  eyes. 


276  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  had  seen  them  nevertheless.  With 
a  sad  smile  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
lady-in-waiting.  "  Ah !"  said  she,  mildly,  "  do  not  conceal 
your  tears.  You  are  much  happier  than  I,  for  you  can 
shed  tears;  mine  have  been  flowing  almost  two  years  in  si- 
lence, and  I  have  had  to  swallow  them !  * 

"But  I  will  not  weep  this  evening,"  she  continued,  "I 
will  meet  these  Parisians  at  least  in  composure.  Yes,  I 
will  do  more,  I  will  try  to  smile  to  them.  They  hate  me 
now,  but  perhaps  they  will  remember  then  that  once  they 
truly  loved  me.  There  is  a  trace  of  magnanimity  in  the 
people,  and  my  confidence  will  perhaps  touch  it.  Be 
quick,  and  make  my  toilet.  I  will  be  fair  to-day.  I  will 
adorn  myself  for  the  Parisians.  They  will  not  be  my 
enemies  alone  who  will  be  at  the  theatre;  some  of  my 
friends  will  be  there,  and  they  at  least  will  be  glad  to  see 
me.  Quick,  mademoiselle,  let  us  begin  my  toilet." 

And  with  a  liveliness  and  a  zeal  which,  in  her  threatened 
situation,  had  something  touching  in  it,  Marie  Antoinette 
arrayed  herself  for  the  public,  for  the  good  Parisians. 

The  news  that  the  queen  was  to  appear  that  evening  at 
the  theatre  had  quickly  run  through  all  Paris;  the  officer 
on  duty  told  it  at  his  relief  to  some  of  the  guards,  they  to 
those  whom  they  met,  and  it  spread  like  wildfire.  It  was 
therefore  very  natural  that,  long  before  the  curtain  was 
raised,  the  great  opera-house  was  completely  filled,  par- 
quette,  boxes,  and  parterre,  with  a  passionately-excited 
throng.  The  friends  of  the  queen  went  in  order  to  give  her 
a  long-looked-for  triumph ;  her  enemies — and  these  the  poor 
queen  had  in  overwhelming  numbers — to  fling  their  hate, 
their  malice,  their  scorn,  into  the  face  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

And  enemies  of  the  queen  had  taken  places  for  them- 
selves in  every  part  of  the  great  house.  They  even  sat  in 
the  boxes  of  the  first  rank,  on  those  velvet-cushioned  chairs 
which  had  formerly  been  occupied  exclusively  by  the 
enthusiastic  admirers  of  the  court,  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  the  aristocracy.  But  now  the  aristocracy  did  not 
dare  to  sit  there.  The  most  of  them,  friends  of  the  queen, 
had  fled,  giving  way  before  her  enemies  and  persecutors; 
and  in  the  boxes  where  they  once  sat,  now  were  the  chief 

*  Marie  Antoinette's  own  words  —See  Goncourt,  p.  264. 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  277 

members  01  the  National  Assembly,  together  with  the 
leading  orators  of  the  clubs,  and  the  societies  of  Jacobins. 

To  the  box  above,  where  the  people  had  once  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  Princess  Lamballe,  the  eyes  of  the  public  were 
directed  again  and  again.  Marie  Antoinette  had  been 
compelled  to  send  away  this  last  of  her  friends  to  London, 
to  have  a  conference  with  Pitt.  Instead  of  the  fair  locks 
of  the  princess,  was  now  to  be  seen  the  head  of  a  man, 
who,  resting  both  arms  on  the  velvet  lining  of  the  box, 
was  gazing  down  with  malicious  looks  into  the  surging 
masses  of  the  parterre.  This  man  was  Marat,  once  the 
veterinary  of  the  Count  d'Artois,  now  the  greatest  and 
most  formidable  orator  of  the  wild  Jacobins. 

He  too  had  come  to  see  the  hated  she-wolf,  as  he  had 
lately  called  the  queen  in  his  "Ami  du  Peuple,"  and,  to 
prepare  for  her  a  public  insult,  sat  drunk  with  vanity  in 
the  splendid  box  of  the  Princess  Lamballe ;  his  friends  and 
confidants  were  in  the  theatre,  among  them  Santerre  the 
brewer,  and  Simon  the  cobbler,  often  looking  up  at  Marat, 
waiting  for  the  promised  motion  which  should  be  his  signal 
for  the  great  demonstration. 

At  length  the  time  arrived  for  the  opera  to  begin,  and, 
alhough  the  queen  had  not  come,  the  director  of  the  or- 
chestra did  not  venture  to  detain  the  audience  even  for  a 
few  minutes.  He  went  to  his  place,  took  his  baton,  and 
gave  the  sign.  The  overture  began,  and  all  was  silent,  in 
parquette  and  parterre,  as  well  as  in  the  boxes.  Every  one 
seemed  to  be  listening  only  to  the  music,  equally  full  of 
sweetness  and  majesty — only  to  have  ears  for  the  noble 
rhythm  with  which  Gluck  begins  his  "  Alceste." 

Suddenly  there  arose  a  dull,  suppressed  sound  in  par- 
quette, parterre,  and  boxes,  and  all  heads  which  had  be- 
fore been  directed  toward  the  stage,  were  now  turned  back- 
ward toward  the  great  royal  box.  No  one  paid  any  more 
attention  to  the  music,  no  one  noticed  that  the  overture 
was  ended  and  that  the  curtain  was  raised. 

Amid  the  blast  of  trumpets,  the  noise  of  violins  and 
clarionets,  the  public  had  heard  the  light  noise  of  the 
opening  doors,  had  noticed  the  entrance  of  the  officers,  and 
this  sound  had  made  the  Parisians  forget  even  their  much- 
loved  music. 


278  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

There  now  appeared  in  the  open  box-door  a  woman's  form. 

The  queen,  followed  by  Mademoiselle  de  Bug'ois,  ad- 
vanced slowly  through  the  great  box  to  the  very  front. 
All  eyes  were  directed  to  her,  all  looks  searched  her  pale, 
noble  face. 

Marie  Antoinette  felt  this,  and  a  smile  flitted  over  her 
face  like  the  evening  glow  of  a  summer's  day.  With  this 
smile  and  a  deep  blush  Marie  Antoinette  bowed  and  saluted 
the  public. 

A  loud,  unbounded  cry  of  applause  resounded  through 
the  vast  room.  In  the  parquette  and  in  the  boxes  hun- 
dreds of  spectators  arose  and  nailed  the  queen  with  a  loud, 
pealing  "  Vive  la  reine!"  and  clapped  their  hands  like 
pleased  children,  and  looked  up  to  the  queen  with  joyful, 
beaming  countenances. 

"  Oh,  my  faith  has  not  deceived!"  whispered  Marie  An- 
toinette into  the  ear  of  her  companion.  "  The  good  Pari- 
sians love  me  still;  they,  like  me,  remember  past  times,  and 
the  old  loyalty  is  awaking  in  them." 

And  again  she  bowed  her  thanks  right  and  left,  and 
again  the  house  broke  out  into  loud  applause. 

A  single,  angry  glance  of  Marat's  little  eyes,  peering  out 
from  beneath  the  bushy  brows,  met  the  queen. 

"  Only  wait,"  said  Marat,  rising  from  his  seat  and  direct- 
ing his  glances  at  the  parterre.  There  stood  the  giant 
Santerre,  and  not  far  from  him  Simon  the  cobbler,  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd  of  savage-looking,  defiant  fellows,  who  all 
looked  at  their  leaders,  while  they,  Santerre  and  Simon, 
directed  their  eyes  up  to  the  box  of  Marat. 

The  glance  of  the  chief  met  that  of  his  two  friends.  A 
scornful,  savage  expression  swept  over  Marat's  ash -colored, 
dirty  face,  and  he  nodded  lightly  to  his  allies.  Santerre 
and  Simon  returned  the  nod,  and  they,  turning  to  their 
companions,  gave  the  signal  by  raising  the  right  hand. 

Suddenly  the  applause  was  overborne  by  loud  whistling 
and  shouting,  derisive  laughter,  and  wild  curses. 

"The  civil  war  has  begun!"  cried  Marat,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  with  delight. 

The  royalists  continued  to  applaud  and  to  shout,  "  Vive 
la  reine!  "  Their  opponents  tried  to  silence  them  by  their 
hisses  and  whistling.  Marat's  face  glowed  with  demoniacal 


REVOLUTION  IN  THE  THEATRE.      '279 

pleasure.  He  turned  to  the  boxes  of  the  second  tier,  and 
nodded  smilingly  to  the  men  who  sat  there. 

At  once  they  began  to  cry,  "The  chorus,  the  chorus, 
let  them  sing,  '  Chantons,  celebrons  notre  reine  I '  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Marat.  "  I  am  a  good  royalist,  for  I 
have  trained  the  people  to  the  cry." 

"Sing,  sing!"  shouted  the  men  to  the  performers  on 
the  stage — "  sing  the  chorus,  '  Chantons,  cele&rons  notre 
reine  I ' 

And  in  the  boxes,  parquette,  everywhere  was  the  cry, 
"  Sing  the  chorus,  '  Chantons,  celebrons  notre  reine  !  ' ' 

"No,"  roared  Santerre,  "no,  they  shall  not  sing  that!" 

"No,"  cried  Simon,  "we  will  not  hear  the  monkey- 
song!" 

And  hundreds  of  men  in  the  parterre  and  the  upper 
rows  of  boxes  echoed  the  cry,  "  No,  we  will  not  hear  the 
monkey-song!" 

"  The  thing  works  well!"  said  Marat.  "  I  hold  my  peo- 
ple by  a  thread,  and  make  them  gesticulate  and  spring  up 
and  down,  like  the  concealed  man  in  a  Punch  and  Judy 
show." 

The  noise  went  on ;  the  royalists  would  not  cease  their 
applause  and  their  calls  for  the  chorus,  "  Chantons,  cele- 
brons notre  reine !"  The  enemies  of  the  queen  did  not 
cease  hissing  and  shouting,  "  We  do  not  want  to  hear  any 
thing  about  the  queen ;  we  will  not  hear  the  monkey-song!" 

"Oh,  would  I  had  never  come  here!"  whispered  the 
queen,  with  tearful  eyes,  as  she  sank  back  in  her  arm- 
chair, and  hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief. 

Perhaps  because  the  real  royalists  saw  the  agitation  of 
the  queen,  and  out  of  compassion  for  her  were  willing  to 
give  up  the  controversy — perhaps  Marat  had  given  a  sign 
to  the  false  royalists  that  they  had  had  enough  of  shouting 
and  confusion — at  all  events  the  cry  "  Vive  la  reine"  and  the 
call  for  the  chorus  died  away  suddenly,  the  applause  ceased, 
and  as  the  enemies  of  the  queen  had  now  no  opposition  to 
encounter,  nothing  was  left  to  them  but  to  be  silent  too. 

"The  first  little  skirmish  is  over!"  said  Marat,  resting 
his  bristly  head  on  the  back  of  his  velvet  arm-chair. 
"  Now  we  will  listen  to  the  music  a  little,  and  look  at  the 
pretty  theatre  girls." 


280  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

And  in  fact  the  opera  had  now  begun ;  the  director  of 
the  orchestra  had  taken  advantage  of  the  return  of  quiet 
to  give  a  sign  to  the  singers  on  the  stage  to  begin  at  once, 
and  with  fortunate  presence  of  mind  his  command  was 
obeyed. 

The  public,  wearied  it  may  be  with  the  shouting  and 
noise,  remained  silent,  and  seemed  to  give  its  attention  ex- 
clusively to  the  stage,  the  development  of  the  plot,  and 
the  noble  music. 

Marie  Antoinette  breathed  freely  again ;  her  pale  cheeks 
began  to  have  color  once  more,  her  eyes  were  again  bright, 
and  she  seemed  transported  beyond  the  sore  battles  and 
dreadful  discords  of  her  life ;  she  listened  respectfully  to 
the  sweet  melodies,  and  the  grand  harmonies  of  the  teacher 
of  her  youth,  the  great  Gluck.  Leaning  back  in  her  arm- 
chair, she  allowed  the  music  to  flow  into  her  soul,  and  the 
recollection  of  past  days  awoke  afresh  in  her  rnind.  She 
dreamed  of  the  days  of  her  childhood :  she  saw  herself  again 
in  Schonbrunn;  she  saw  her  teacher  Gluck  enter  the  blue 
music-room,  in  which  she  with  her  sisters  used  to  wait  for 
him ;  she  saw  the  glowing  countenance  of  her  mother,  the 
great  Maria  Theresa,  entering  her  room,  in  order  to  give 
Gluck  a  proof  of  her  high  regard,  and  to  announce  to  him 
herself  that  Marie  Antoinette  had  betrothed  herself  to  the 
Dauphin  of  France,  and  that  she  would  soon  bid  her 
teacher  farewell,  in  order  to  enter  upon  her  new  and  brill- 
iant career. 

A  low  hum  in  the  theatre  awakened  the  queen  from  her 
reveries;  she  raised  herself  up  and  leaned  forward,  to  see 
what  was  going  on.  Her  glance,  which  was  directed  to 
the  stage,  fell  upon  the  singer  Clairval,  who  was  just  then 
beginning  to  give,  with  his  wonderfully  full  and  flexible 
voice,  the  great  aria  in  which  the  friend  comes  to  console 
the  grief-burdened,  weeping  Queen  Alceste,  and  to  dry  her 
tears  by  assuring  her  of  the  love  of  her  faithful  adherents. 

Clairval  had  advanced  in  the  aria  to  that  celebrated  pas- 
sage which  had  given  to  Marie  Antoinette  a  half  year  be- 
fore her  last  great^triumph.  It  ran: 

"Refne  infortun^e,  ah!  que  ton  cceur 
Ne  soit  plus  navr6  de  douleur  I 
II  vous  reste  encore  des  amis  I" 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  281 

But  scarcely  had  Clairval  begun  the  first  strophe  when  the 
thundering  voice  of  Santerre  called,  "None  of  that,  we 
will  not  hear  the  air!" 

"No,  we  will  not  hear  the  air!"  shouted  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  voices. 

"Poor  Gluck,"  whispered  Marie  Antoinette,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "  because  they  hate  me,  they  will  not  even 
hear  your  music!" 

"  Sing  it,  sing  it!"  shouted  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
voices  from  all  parts  of  the  house. 

"No,  do  not  sing  it!"  roared  the  others;  "we  will  not 
hear  the  air." 

And  suddenly,  above  the  cries  of  the  contestants,  rose  a 
loud,  yelling  voice: 

"  I  forbid  the  singer  Clairval  ever  again  singing  this  air. 
I  forbid  it  in  the  name  of  the  people!" 

It  was  Marat  who  spoke  these  words.  Standing  on  the 
arm-chair  of  the  Princess  de  Lamballe,  and  raising  his  long 
arms,  and  directing  them  threateningly  toward  the  stage, 
he  turned  his  face,  aglow  with  hate  and  evil,  toward  the 
queen. 

Marie  Antoinette,  who  had  turned  her  head  in  alarm  in 
the  direction  whence  the  voice  proceeded,  met  with  her 
searching  looks  the  eyes  of  Marat,  which  were  fixed  upon 
her  with  an  expression  equally  stern  and  contemptuous. 

She  shrank  back,  and,  as  if  in  deadly  pain,  put  her  hand 
to  her  heart. 

"0  God!"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "that  is  no  man, 
that  is  an  infernal  demon,  who  has  risen  there  to  take  the 
place  of  my  dear,  sweet  Lamballe.  Ah,  the  good  spirit  is 
gone,  and  the  demon  takes  its  place — the  demon  which 
will  destroy  us  all!" 

"Long  live  Marat!"  roared  Santerre,  and  his  comrades. 
"  Long  live  Marat,  the  great  friend  of  the  people,  the  true 
patriot!" 

Marat  bowed  on  all  sides,  stepped  down  from  the  easy- 
chair,  and  seated  himself  comfortably  in  it. 

Clairval  had  shopped  in  the  air ;  pale,  confused,  and  ter- 
rified, he  had  withdrawn,  and  the  director  whispered  to  the 
orchestra  and  the  singers  to  begin  the  next  number. 

The  opera  went  on,  and  the  public  again  appeared  to 


282  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

give  itself  during  some  scenes  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
music.  But  soon  this  short  quiet  was  to  be  disturbed 
again.  One  of  the  singers,  Madame  Dugazont,  a  zealous 
royalist,  wanted  to  give  the  queen  a  little  triumph,  and 
show  her  that,  although  Clairval  had  been  silenced,  the 
love  and  veneration  of  Dugazont  were  still  alive  and  ready 
to  display  themselves. 

Singing  as  the  attendant  of  Alceste,  Dugazont  had  these 
words  to  give  in  her  part :  "  Ah !  comme  j'aime  la  reine, 
comme  faime  ma  maitresse!" 

She  advanced  close  to  the  footlights,  and  turning  her 
looks  toward  the  royal  box,  and  bowing  low,  sang  the 
words:  "  Comme  faime  la  reine,  comme  j'aime  ma  mai- 
tresse !  " 

And  now,  as  if  this  had  been  the  battle-cry  of  a  new 
contest,  a  fearful  din,  a  raging  torrent  of  sound  began 
through  the  whole  house.  At  first  it  was  a  mixed  and 
confused  mass  of  cries,  roars,  hisses,  and  applause.  Now 
and  then  single  voices  could  be  heard  above  the  horrid 
chaos  of  sounds.  "  We  want  no  queen !"  shouted  some. 
"We  want  no  mistress!"  roared  others;  and  mingled  with 
those  was  the  contrary  cry,  "  Long  live  the  queen !  Long 
live  our  mistress!" 

"Hi!"  said  Marat,  full  of  delight,  twisting  his  bony 
form  up  into  all  kinds  of  knots — "  hi !  this  is  the  way  they 
shout  in  hell.  Satan  himself  would  like  this!" 

More  and  more  horrible,  more  and  more  wild  became  the 
cries  of  the  rival  partisans.  Already  embittered  and  ex- 
asperated faces  were  confronting  each  other,  and  here  and 
there  clinched  fists  were  seen,  threatening  to  bring  a  shout- 
ing neighbor  to  silence  by  the  use  of  violence. 

The  queen,  trembling  in  every  limb,  had  let  her  head 
fall  powerlessly  on  her  breast,  in  order  that  no  one  might 
see  the  tears  which  ran  from  her  eyes  over  her  death-like 
cheeks. 

"0  God,"  whispered  she,  "we  are  lost,  hopelessly  lost, 
for  not  merely  our  enemies  injure  us,  and  bring  us  into 
danger,  but  our  friends  still  more.  Why  must  that  woman 
turn  to  me  and  direct  her  words  to  me?  She  wanted  to 
give  me  a  triumph,  and  yet  she  has  brought  me  a  new 
humiliation."  Suddenly  she  shrank  back  and  raised  her 


REVOLUTION   IN    THE   THEATRE.  283 

head.  She  had  caught  the  first  tones  of  that  sharp,  mock- 
ing voice,  which  had  already  pierced  her  heart,  the  voice 
of  that  evil  demon  who  now  occupied  the  place  of  the  good 
Princess  Larnballe. 

The  voice  cried :  "  The  people  of  Paris  are  right.  We 
want  no  queen!  And  more  than  all  other  things,  no  mis- 
tress! Only  slaves  acknowledge  masters  over  them.  If 
the  Dugazont  ventures  to  sing  again,  'I  love  my  queen,  I 
love  my  mistress, '  she  will  be  punished  as  slaves  are  pun- 
ished— that  is,  she  will  be  flogged!" 

"  Bravo,  Marat,  bravo!"  roared  Santerre,  with  his  savage 
rabble.  "Bravo,  Marat,  bravo!"  cried  his  friends  in  the 
boxes;  "she  shall  be  flogged!" 

Marat  bowed  on  all  sides,  and  turned  his  eyes,  gleaming 
with  scorn  and  hatred,  toward  the  royal  box,  and  menaced 
it  with  his  clinched  fists. 

"But  not  alone  shall  the  singer  be  flogged,"  cried  he, 
with  a  voice  louder  and  sharper  than  before — "  no,  not 
alone  shall  the  singer  be  flogged,  but  greater  punishment 
have  they  deserved  who  urge  on  to  such  deeds.  If  the 
Aiastrian  woman  comes  here  again  to  turn  the  heads  of 
sympathizing  souls  with  her  martyr  looks,  if  she  under- 
takes again  to  move  us  with  her  tears  and  her  face,  we  will 
serve  her  as  she  deserves,  we  will  go  whip  in  hand  into  her 
box!"* 

The  queen  rose  from  her  chair  like  an  exasperated  lion- 
ess, and  advanced  to  the  front  of  the  box.  Standing  erect, 
with  flaming  looks  of  anger,  with  cheeks  like  purple,  she 
confronted  them  there — the  true  heir  of  the  Caesars,  the 
courageous  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa — and  had  already 
opened  her  lips  to  speak  and  overwhelm  the  traitor  with 
her  wrath,  when  another  voice  was  heard  giving  answer  to 
Marat. 

It  cried :  "  Be  silent,  Marat,  be  silent.  Whoever  dares 
to  insult  a  woman,  be  she  queen  or  beggar,  dishonors  him- 
self, his  mother,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter.  I  call  on  you 
all,  I  call  on  the  whole  ptrblic,  to  take  the  part  of  a  de- 
fenceless woman,  whom  Marat  ventures  to  mortally  insult. 
You  all  have  mothers  and  wives ;  you  may,  perhaps,  some 
day  have  daughters.  Defend  the  honor  of  woman!  Do 

*Goncourt's  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  365. 
19 


284  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

not  permit  it  to  be  degraded  in  your  presence.  Marat  has 
insulted  a  woman;  we  owe  her  satisfaction  for  it.  Join 
with  me  in  the  cry,  'Long  live  the  queen!  Long  live 
Marie  Antoinette!' ' 

And  the  public,  carried  away  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
this  young,  handsome  man,  who  had  risen  in  his  box,  and 
whose  slender,  proud  figure  towered  above  all — the  public 
broke  into  one  united  stirring  cry :  "  Long  live  the  queen ! 
Long  live  Marie  Antoinette!" 

Marat,  trembling  with  rage,  his  countenance  suffused 
with  a  livid  paleness,  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"  I  knew  very  well  that  Barnave  was  a  traitor,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  I  shall  remember  this  moment,  and  Barnave  shall 
one  day  atone  for  it  with  his  head." 

"Barnave,  it  is  Barnave,"  whispered  the  queen  to  her- 
self. "  He  has  rescued  me  from  great  danger,  for  I  was 
on  the  point  of  being  carrief  away  by  my  wrath,  and  an- 
swering the  monster  there  as  ne  deserves." 

"Long  live  the  queen!  Long  live  Marie  Antoinette!" 
shouted  the  public. 

Marie  Antoinette  bowed  and  greeted  the  audience  on  all 
sides  with  a  sad  smile,  but  not  one  look  did  she  cast  to  the 
box  where  Barnave  sat,  with  not  one  smile  did  she  thank 
him  for  the  service  he  had  done  her.  For  the  queen  knew 
well  that  her  favor  brought  misfortune  to  those  who  shared 
it;  that  he  on  whom  she  bestowed  a  smile  was  the  object 
of  the  people's  suspicion. 

The  public  continued  to  shout  her  name,  but  the  queen 
felt  herself  exhausted,  and  drawing  back  from  the  front  of 
the  box,  she  beckoned  to  her  companion.  "Come,"  she 
whispered,  "  let  us  go  while  the  public  are  calling  'Long 
live  Marie  Antoinette!'  Who  knows  whether  they  will  not 
be  shouting  in  another  minute,  'Away  with  the  queen!  we 
want  no  queen!'  It  pains  my  ear  so  to  hear  that,  so  let 
us  go." 

And  while  the  public  were  yet  crying,  Marie  Antoinette 
left  the  box  and  passed  out  into  the  corridor,  followed  by 
Mademoiselle  Bugois  and  the  two  officers  in  attendance. 

But  the  corridor  which  the  queen  had  to  pass,  the  stair- 
case which  she  had  to  descend  in  order  to  reach  her  car- 
riage, were  both  occupied  by  a  dense  throng.  With  the 


REVOLUTION    IN   THE   THEATRE.  285 

swiftness  of  the  wind  the  news  had  spread  through  Paris 
that  the  queen  was  going  to  visit  the  opera  that  evening, 
and  that  her  visit  would  not  take  place  without  witnessing 
some  extraordinary  outbreak. 

The  royalists  had  hastened  thither,  to  salute  the  queen, 
and  at  least  to  see  her  on  the  way.  The  curious,  the  idle, 
and  the  hostile-minded  had  come  to  see  what  should  take 
place,  and  to  shout  as  the  majority  might  shout.  The  great 
opera-house  had  therefore  not  accommodated  half  who 
wanted  to  be  present,  and  all  those  who  had  been  refused 
admittance  had  taken  their  station  on  the  stairway  and 
the  corridor,  or  before  the  main  entrance.  And  it  was 
natural  that  those  who  stood  before  the  door  should,  by 
their  merely  being  there,  excite  the  curiosity  of  passers-by, 
so  that  these,  too,  stood  still,  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
and  all  pressed  forward  to  the  staircase  to  see  every  thing 
and  to  hear  every  thing. 

But  the  civil  war  which  was  raging  within  the  theatre 
had  given  rise  to  battles  outside  as  well;  the  same  cries 
which  had  resounded  within,  pealed  along  the  path  of  the 
queen.  She  could  only  advance  slowly;  closer  and  closer 
thronged  the  crowd,  louder  and  louder  roared  around 
Marie  Antoinette  the  various  battle-cries  of  the  parties, 
"  Long  live  the  queen!"  "  Long  live  the  National  Assem- 
bly! Down  with  the  queen!" 

Marie  Antoinette  appeared  to  hear  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  of  these  cries.  With  proudly  erected  head,  and 
calm,  grave  looks,  she  walked  forward,  untroubled  about 
the  crowd,  which  the  National  Guard  before  her  could  only 
break  through  by  a*  recourse  to  threats  and  violence,  in 
order  to  make  a  passage  for  the  queen. 

At  last  the  difficult  task  was  done;  at  last  she  had 
reached  her  carriage,  and  could  rest  upon  its  cushions, 
and,  unobserved  by  spying  looks,  could  give  way  to  her 
grief  and  her  tears.  But  alas!  this  consolation  continued 
only  for  a  short  time.  The  carriage  soon  stopped;  the 
Tuileries,  that  sad,  silent  prison  of  the  royal  family,  was 
soon  reached,  and  Marie  Antoinette  quickly  dried  her  tears, 
and  compelled  herself  to  appear  calm. 

"  Do  not  weep  more,  Bugois,"  she  whispered.  "  "We  will 
not  give  our  enemies  the  triumph  of  seeing  that  they  have 


286  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

forced  tears  from  us.     Try  to  be  cheerful,  and  tell  no  one 
of  the  insults  of  this  evening." 

The  carriage  door  was  opened,  the  queen  dismounted, 
and,  surrounded  by  National  Guards  and  officers,  returned 
to  her  apartments. 

No  one  bade  her  welcome,  no  one  received  her  as  becomes 
a  queen.  A  few  of  the  servants  only  stood  in  the  outer 
room,  but  Marie  Antoinette  had  no  looks  for  them.  She 
had  been  compelled  as  a  constitutional  queen  ought,  to  dis- 
miss her  own  tried  and  faithful  servants;  her  household 
had  been  reorganized,  and  she  knew  very  well  that  these 
new  menials  were  her  enemies,  and  served  as  spies  for  the 
National  Assembly.  The  queen  therefore  passed  them  with- 
out greeting,  and  entered  her  sitting-room. 

But  even  here  she  was  not  alone;  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room was  open,  and  there  sat  the  officer  of  the  National 
Guard,  whose  duty  of  the  day  it  was  to  watch  her. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  no  longer  the  right  of  being  alone 
with  her  grief,  no  longer  the  right  of  being  alone  with  her 
husband.  The  little  corridor  which  ran  from  the 
apartments  of  the  queen  to  those  of  the  king,  was  always 
closed  and  guarded.  When  the  king  came  to  visit  his  wife, 
the  guard  came  too  and  remained,  hearing  every  word  and 
standing  at  the  door  till  the  king  retired.  In  like  man- 
ner, both  entrances  to  the  apartments  of  the  queen  were 
always  watched ;  for  before  the  one  sat  an  officer  appointed 
by  the  National  Assembly,  and  before  the  other  a  member 
of  the  National  Guard  stood  as  sentry. 

With  a  deep  sigh  the  queen  entered  her  sleeping-room. 
The  officer  sat  before  the  open  door  of  the  adjacent  room, 
and  looked  sternly  and  coldly  in.  For  an  instant  an  ex- 
pression of  anger  flitted  over  the  face  of  the  queen,  and 
her  lips  quivered  as  though  she  wanted  to  speak  a  hasty 
word.  But  she  suppressed  it,  and  withdrew  behind  the 
great  screen,  in  order  to  be  disrobed  by  her  two  waiting- 
maids  and  be  arrayed  in  her  night-dress. 

Then  she  dismissed  the  maids,  and  coming  out  from  be- 
hind the  screen,  she  said,  loudly  enough  to  be  heard  by  the 
officer:  "I  am  weary,  I  will  sleep." 

At  once  he  arose,  and  turning  to  the  two  guards,  who 
stood  at  the  door  of  the  anteroom,  said : 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  287 

"  The  queen  is  retiring,  and  the  watch  in  the  black  cor- 
ridor can  withdraw.  The  National  Assembly  has  given 
command  to  lighten  the  service  of  the  National  Guard,  by 
withdrawing  as  much  of  the  force  as  possible.  As  long  as 
the  queen  is  lying  in  bed,  two  eyes  are  enough  to  watch 
her,  and  they  shall  watch  her  well!" 

The  soldiers  left  the  anteroom,  and  the  officer  returned 
to  the  entrance  of  the  sleeping-room.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, sit  down  in  the  easy-chair  before  the  door,  but  walked 
directly  into  the  chamber  of  the  queen. 

Marie  Antoinette  trembled  and  reached  out  her  hand  for 
the  bell  which  stood  by  her  on  the  table. 

"  Be  still,  for  God's  sake,  be  still!"  whispered  the  officer. 
"  Make  no  noise,  your  majesty.  Look  at  my  face."  And, 
kneeling  before  the  queen,  he  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  her  with  an  expression  almost  of  supplication.  "  I  am 
Toulan,"  he  whispered,  "the  faithful  servant  of  my  queen. 
Will  your  majesty  have  the  goodness  to  recall  me?  Here 
is  a  letter  from  my  patroness,  Madame  de  Campan,  who 
speaks  well  for  me.  Will  your  majesty  read  it?" 

The  queen  ran  over  the  paper  quickly  and  turned  with  a 
gentle  smile  to  the  officer,  who  was  still  kneeling  before 
her,  and  who,  in  all  her  humiliation  and  misfortune,  still 
paid  her  the  homage  due  to  majesty. 

"Stand  up,  sir,"  she  said,  mildly.  "The  throne  lies  in 
dust,  and  my  crown  is  so  sadly  broken,  that  it  is  no  longer 
worth  the  trouble  to  kneel  before  it." 

"  Madame,  I  see  two  crowns  upon  your  noble  head," 
whispered  Toulan — "  the  crown  of  the  queen,  and  the 
crown  of  misfortune.  To  these  two  crowns  I  dedicate  my 
service  and  my  fidelity,  and  for  them  I  am  prepared  to  die. 
It  is  true,  I  can  do  but  little  for  your  majesty,  but  that  lit- 
tle shall  be  faithfully  done.  Thanks  to  my  bitter  hatred 
of  royalty,  and  my  rampant  Jacobinism,  I  have  carried 
matters  so  far,  that  I  have  been  put  upon  the  list  of  officers 
to  keep  watch,  and,  therefore,  once  every  week  I  shall  keep 
guard  before  your  majesty's  sleeping-room." 

"  And  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  so  put  your  chair  that 
I  shall  not  see  you — that  during  the  night  I  may  not 
always  have  the  feeling  of  being  watched?"  asked  the 
queen,  in  supplicant  tones. 


288  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"No,  your  majesty,"  said  Toulan,  moved.  "I  will  re- 
main in  my  chair,  but  your  majesty  will  prefer,  perhaps, 
to  turn  the  night  into  day,  and  remain  up ;  as  during  my 
nights  you  will  not  be  disturbed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette, 
joyfully. 

"  I  mean,  that,  as  during  the  day  your  majesty  can  never 
speak  with  the  king  without  witnesses,  we  must  call  the 
night  to  our  assistance,  if  you  wish  to  speak  confidentially 
to  his  majesty.  Your  majesty  has  heard,  that  during  the 
night  the  watch  is  withdrawn  from  the  corridor,  and  your 
majesty  is  free  to  leave  your  room  and  go  to  the  chamber 
of  the  king." 

A  flash  of  joy  passed  over  the  countenance  of  the  queen. 
"I  thank  you,  sir — I  thank  you  to-day  as  a  wife;  per- 
haps the  day  may  come  when  I  can  thank  you  as  a  queen ; 
I  accept  your  magnanimous  kindness.  Yes,  I  will  turn 
the  night  into  day,  and,  thanks  to  you,  I  shall  be  able  to 
spend  several  hours  undisturbed  with  my  husband  and  my 
children.  And  do  you  say  that  you  shall  be  here  quite  often  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  majesty,  I  shall  be  here  once  every  week  at 
your  majesty's  order." 

"Oh!  I  have  lost  the  habit  of  ordering,"  said  Marie 
Antoinette,  with  a  pained  look.  "  You  see  that  the  Queen 
of  France  is  powerless,  but  she  is  not  wholly  unfortunate, 
for  she  has  friends  still.  You  belong  to  these  friends,  sir; 
and  that  we  may  both  retain  the  memory  of  this  day,  I 
will  always  call  you  my  faithful  one." 

No,  the  queen  is  not  wholly  unfortunate ;  she  has  friends 
who  are  ready,  with  her,  to  suffer;  with  her,  if  it  must  be, 
to  die.  The  Polignacs  are  gone,  but  Princess  Lamballe, 
whom  the  queen  had  sent  to  London,  to  negotiate  with 
Pitt,  has  returned,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  and  pleadings 
of  the  queen.  Marie  Antoinette,  when  she  learned  that 
the  princess  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  England,  had 
written  to  her:  "  Do  not  come  back  at  a  moment  so  criti- 
cal. You  would  have  to  weep  too  much  for  us.  I  feel 
deeply,  believe  me,  how  good  you  are,  and  what  a  true 
friend  you  are.  But,  with  all  my  love,  I  enjoin  you  not  to 
come  here.  Believe  me,  my  tender  friendship  for  you  will 
cease  only  with  death." 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  289 

The  warning  of  her  royal  friend  had,  meanwhile,  not 
restrained  Princess  Lamballe  from  doing  what  friendship 
commanded.  .She  had  returned  to  France,  and  Marie  An- 
toinette had,  at  least,  the  comfort  of  having  a  tender  friend 
at  her  side. 

No,  the  queen  was  not  wholly  unfortunate.  Besides  this 
friend,  she  had  her  children,  too — her  sweet,  blooming  lit- 
tle daughter,  and  the  dauphin,  the  pride  and  joy  of  her 
heart. 

The  dauphin  had  no  suspicion  of  the  woes  and  misfor- 
tunes which  were  threatening  them.  Like  flowers  that 
grow  luxuriantly  and  blossom  upon  graves,  so  grew  and 
blossomed  this  beautiful  boy  in  the  Tuileries,  which  was 
nothing  more  than  the  grave  of  the  old  kingly  glory. 

But  the  dauphin  was  like  sunshine  in  this  dark,  sad  pal- 
ace, and  Marie  Antoinette's  countenance  lightened  when 
her  eye  fell  upon  her  son,  looking  up  to  her  with  his  ten- 
der, beaming  face.  From  the  fresh,  merry  smile  of  her 
darling,  she  herself  learned  to  smile  again  and  be  happy. 

Gradually,  after  the  first  rage  of  the  people  was  appeased, 
the  chains  with  which  she  was  bound  were  relaxed.  The 
royal  family  was  at  least  permitted  to  leave  the  close,  hot 
rooms,  and  go  down  into  the  gardens,  although  still 
watched  and  accompanied  by  the  National  Guard.  They 
were  permitted  to  close  the  doors  of  their  rooms  again, 
although  armed  sentries  still  stood  before  them. 

There  were  even  some  weeks  and  months  in  this  year 
1791,  when  it  appeared  as  if  the  exasperated  spirits  would 
be  pacified,  and  the  throne  be  reestablished  with  a  portion 
of  its  old  dignity.  The  king  had,  in  a  certain  manner, 
received  forgiveness  from  the  National  Assembly,  while 
accepting  the  constitution  and  swearing — as  indeed  he 
could  but  swear,  all  power  having  been  taken  from  him, 
and  he  being  a  mere  lay-figure — that  would  control  all  his 
actions,  and  govern  according  to  the  expressed  will  of  the 
National  Assembly. 

But  the  king,  in  order  to  make  peace  with  his  people, 
had  even  made  this  sacrifice,  and  accepted  the  constitution. 
The  people  seemed  grateful  to  him  for  this,  and  appeared 
to  be  willing  to  return  to  more  friendly  relations.  The 
queen  was  no  longer  insulted  with  contemptuous  cries  when 


290  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

she  appeared  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  or  in  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  and  it  even  began  to  be  the  fashion  to  speak 
about  the  dauphin  as  a  miracle  of  loveliness  and  beauty, 
and  to  go  to  the  Tuileries  to  see  him  working  in  his  garden. 

This  garden  of  the  dauphin  was  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  the  palace,  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  on  the 
river-side;  it  was  surrounded  with  a  high  wire  fence,  and 
close  by  stood  the  little  pavilion  where  dwelt  Abbe  Davout, 
the  teacher  of  the  dauphin.  The  dauphin  had  had  in 
Versailles  a  little  garden  of  his  own,  which  he  himself 
worked,  planted,  and  digged,  and  from  whose  flowers  he 
picked  a  bouquet  every  morning,  to  bring  it  with  beaming 
countenance  to  his  mamma  queen. 

For  this  painfully-missed  garden  of  Versailles,  the  little 
garden  on  the  terrace  had  to  compensate.  The  child  was 
delighted  with  it;  and  every  morning,  when  his  study- 
hours  were  over,  the  dauphin  hastened  to  his  little  par- 
terre, to  dig  and  to  water  his  flowers.  The  garden  has, 
since  that  day,  much  changed ;  it  is  enlarged,  laid  out  on 
a  different  plan,  and  surrounded  with  a  higher  fence,  but 
it  still  remains  the  garden  of  the  Dauphin  Louis  Charles, 
the  same  garden  that  Napoleon  subsequently  gave  to  the 
little  King  of  Borne;  the  same  that  Charles  X.  gave  to 
the  Duke  de  Bordeaux,  and  that  Louis  Philippe  gave  to  the 
Count  de  Paris.  How  many  recollections  cluster  around 
this  little  bit  of  earth,  which  has  always  been  prematurely 
left  by  its  young  possessors !  One  died  in  prison  scarcely 
ten  years  old ;  another,  hurried  away  by  the  tempest,  still 
younger,  into  a  foreign  land,  only  lived  to  hear  the  name 
of  his  father,  and  see  his  dagger  before  he  died.  The 
third  and  fourth  were  hurled  out  by  the  storm-wind  like 
the  first  two,  and  still  wear  the  mantle  of  exile  in  Austria 
and  England.  And  many  as  are  the  tears  with  which 
these  children  regard  their  own  fate,  there  must  be  many 
which  they  must  bestow  upon  the  fate  of  their  fathers. 
One  died  upon  the  scaffold,  another  from  the  knife  of  an 
assassin,  a  third  from  a  fall  upon  the  pavement  of  a  high- 
way; and  the  last,  the  greatest  of  them  all,  was  bound, 
like  Prometheus,  to  a  rock,  and  fed  on  bitter  recollections 
till  he  met  his  death. 

This  little  garden,  on  the  river-side  terrace  of  the  Tuil- 


REVOLUTION   IN   THE   THEATRE.  291 

eries  park,  which  has  come  to  have  a  world-wide  interest, 
was  then  the  Eldorado  of  the  little  Dauphin  of  France; 
and  to  see  him  behind  the  fence  was  the  delight  of  the 
Parisians  who  used  to  visit  there,  and  long  for  the  moment 
when  the  glance  of  his  blue  eye  fell  upon  them,  and  for 
some  days  and  months  had  again  become  enthusiastic 
royalists. 

When  the  prince  went  into  his  little  garden,  he  was 
usually  accompanied  by  a  detachment  of  the  National 
Guard,  who  were  on  duty  in  the  Tuileries;  and  the  dau- 
phin, who  was  now  receiving  instruction  in  the  use  of 
weapons,  generally  wore  himself  the  uniform  of  a  member 
of  the  National  Guard.  The  Parisians  were  delighted  with 
this  little  guard  of  six  years.  His  picture  hung  in  all 
stores,  it  was  painted  on  fans  and  rings,  and  it  was  the 
fashion,  among  the  most  elegant  ladies  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  and  among  the  market-women  as  well,  to  deco- 
rate themselves  with  the  likeness  of  the  dauphin.  How  his 
brow  beamed,  how  his  eye  brightened,  when,  accompanied 
by  his  escort,  of  which  he  was  proud,  he  entered  his  gar- 
den! 'When  the  retinue  was  not  large,  the  prince  took 
his  place  in  the  ranks.  One  day,  when  all  the  National 
Guards  on  duty  were  very  desirous  of  accompanying  him, 
several  of  them  were  compelled  to  stand  outside  of  the 
garden.  "Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  said  the  dauphin;  "it 
is  a  great  pity  that  my  garden  is  so  small  that  it  deprives 
me  of  the  pleasure  of  receiving  you  all."  Then  he  hast- 
ened to  give  flowers  to  every  one  who  was  near  the  fence, 
and  received  their  thanks  with  great  pleasure. 

The  enthusiasm  for  the  dauphin  was  so  great,  that  the 
boys  of  Paris  envied  their  elders  the  honor  of  being  in  his 
service,  and  longed  to  become  soldiers,  that  they  might  be 
in  his  retinue.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  regiment  of  boys 
formed,  which  took  the  name  of  the  Dauphin's  Regiment. 
The  citizens  of  Paris  were  anxious  to  enroll  the  names  of 
their  sons  in  the  lists  of  this  regiment,  and  to  pay  the  ex- 
penses of  an  equipment.  And  when  this  miniature  regi- 
ment was  formed,  with  the  king's  permission,  it  marched 
to  the  Tuileries,  in  order  to.  parade  before  the  dauphin. 
The  prince  was  delighted  with  the  little  regiment,  and  in- 
vited its  officers  to  visit  his  garden,  that  they  might  see 


292  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

his  flowers,  his  finest  treasures.  "  Would  you  do  us  the 
pleasure  to  be  the  colonel  of  our  regiment?"  one  of  the 
officers  asked  the  dauphin. 

"Oh!  certainly,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  you  must  give  up  getting  flowers  and  bouquets 
for  your  mamma!"  said  one  of  the  boys. 

"Oh!"  answered  the  dauphin,  with  a  smile,  "  that  will 
not  hinder  my  taking  care  of  my  flowers.  Many  of  these 
gentlemen  have  little  gardens,  too,  as  they  have  told  me. 
Very  well,  they  can  follow  the  example  of  their  colonel, 
and  love  the  queen,  and  then  mamma  will  receive  whole 
regiments  of  flowers  every  day." 

The  majority  of  this  regiment  consisted,  at  the  outset, 
of  children  of  the  highest  ranks  of  society,  and  it  was  there- 
fore natural  that  they,  practiced  in  the  most  finished  cour- 
tesy, should  pay  some  deference  to  their  young  colonel. 
But  they  were  expressly  forbidden  showing  any  thing  of 
this  feeling  toward  their  comrade.  "For,"  said  the  king, 
"  I  want  him  to  have  companions  who  will  stimulate  his 
ambition ;  but  I  do  not  want  him  to  have  flatterers,  who 
shall  lead  him  to  live  to  himself  alone."  Soon  the  number 
of  little  soldiers  increased,  for  every  family  longed  for  the 
honor  of  having  its  sons  in  the  regiment  of  the  royal  dau- 
phin. The  people  used  always  to  throng  in  great  masses 
when  this  regiment  went  through  its  exercises  in  the  Place 
de  la  Carrousel.  It  was  a  miniature  representation  of  the 
French  guards,  with  their  three-cornered  hats  and  white 
jackets;  and  nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  this 
regiment  of  blooming  boys  in  their  tasteful  uniforms,  and 
their  little  chief,  the  dauphin,  looking  at  his  regiment 
with  beaming  eyes  and  smiling  lips. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  little  soldiers  of  the  Royal  Dau- 
phin Regiment  for  their  colonel  was  so  great,  that  they 
longed  to  give  him  a  proof  of  their  love.  One  day  the 
officers  of  the  regiment  came  into  the  Tuileries  and  begged 
the  king's  permission  to  make  a  present  to  the  dauphin, 
in  the  name  of  the  whole  regiment.  The  king  gladly  ac- 
ceded to  their  request,  and  he  himself  conducted  the  little 
officers  into  the  reception-room,  where  was  the  dauphin, 
standing  at  the  side  of  his  mother. 

The  little  colonel  hastened  to  greet  them.     "  Welcome, 


REVOLUTION    IN   THE    THEATRE.  293 

my  comrades,  welcome!"  cried  he,  extending  his  hand  to 
them.  "  My  mamma  queen  tells  me  that  you  have  brought 
me  something  which  will  give  me  pleasure.  But  it  gives 
me  pleasure  to  see  you,  and  nothing  more  is  needed." 

"  But,  colonel,  you  will  not  refuse  our  present?" 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,  for  my  papa  king  says  that  a  colonel 
is  not  forbidden  taking  a  gift  from  his  regiment.  What 
is  it?" 

"  Colonel,  we  bring  you  a  set  of  dominoes,"  said  a  little 
officer,  named  Palloy,  who  was  the  speaker  of  the  delega- 
tion— "  a  set  of  dominoes  entirely  made  out  of  the  ruins  of 
the  Bastile." 

And  taking  the  wrapper  from  the  white  marble  box, 
bound  with  gold,  he  extended  it  to  the  dauphin,  and  re- 
peated with  a  solemn  face  the  following  lines : 

"Those  gloomy  walls  that  once  awoke  our  fear 
Are  changed  into  the  toy  we  offer  here : 
And  when  with  joyful  face  the  gift  you  view, 
Think  what  the  people's  mighty  love  can  do. "  * 

Poor  little  dauphin!  Even  when  they  wanted  to  do  him 
homage,  they  were  threatening  him ;  and  the  present  which 
affection  offered  to  the  royal  child  was  at  the  same  time  a 
bequest  of  Kevolution,  which  even  then  lifted  her  warning 
finger,  and  pointed  at  the  past,  when  the  hate  of  the  peo- 
ple destroyed  those  "  gloomy  walls,"  which  had  been  erected 
by  kingly  power. 

In  his  innocence  and  childish  simplicity,  the  dauphin 
saw  nothing  of  the  sting  which,  unknown  even  to  the 
givers,  lurked  within  this  gift.  He  enjoyed  like  a  child 
the  beautiful  present,  and  listened  with  eagerness  while  the 
manner  of  playing  the  game  was  described  to  him.  All 
the  stones  were  taken  from  the  mantel  of  black  marble  in 
the  reception-room  of  Delaunay,  the  governor  of  the  Bas- 
tile, who  had  been  murdered  by  the  people.  On  the  back 
of  each  of  these  stones  was  a  letter  set  in  gold,  and  when 
the  whole  were  arranged  in  regular  order,  they  formed  the 
sentence:  "  Vive  le  JRoi,  vive  la  Heine,  et  M.  le  Dauphin.1' 

*  "De  ces  affreux  cachots,  la  terreur  des  Frangais, 
Vous  voyez  les  d6bris  transformes  en  hochets ; 
Puissent-ils,  en  servant  aux  jeux  de  votre  enfance, 
Du  peuple  vous  prouver  1'amour  et  la  puissance." 
Beauchesne,  "Louis  XVII.     Sa  Vie,  son  Agonie,"  etc.,  vol.  iv.,  p.  336. 


294  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

The  marble  of  the  box  was  taken  from  the  altar-slab  in  the 
chapel.  In  the  middle  was  a  golden  relief,  representing 
a  face. 

"That  is  my  papa  king,"  cried  the  dauphin,  joyfully, 
looking  at  the  representation. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Palloy,  the  speaker  of  the  little  company, 
"  every  one  of  us  bears  him  in  his  heart.  And  like  the 
king,  you  will  live  for  the  happiness  of  all,  and  like  him 
you  will  be  the  idol  of  France.  We,  who  shall  one  day  be 
French  soldiers  and  citizens,  bring  to  you,  who  will  then 
be  our  commander-in-chief  and  king,  our  homage  as  the 
future  supporters  of  the  throne  which  is  destined  for  you, 
and  which  the  wisdom  of  your  father  has  placed  under  the 
unshakable  power  of  law.  The  gift  which  we  offer  you  is 
but  small,  but  each  one  of  us  adds  his  heart  to  it."  * 

"  And  I  give  all  of  you  my  heart  in  return  for  it,"  cried 
the  dauphin,  with  a  joyful  eagerness,  "  and  I  shall  take 
great  pains  to  be  good,  and  to  learn  well,  that  I  may  be 
allowed  to  amuse  myself  with  playing  dominoes." 

And  the  little  fellow  fixed  his  large,  blue  eyes  upon  the 
queen  with  a  tender  look,  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

"My  dear  mamma  queen,"  he  said,  caressingly,  "if  I  am 
real  good,  and  study  hard,  we  can  both  play  dominoes  to- 
gether, can't  we?" 

A  sad  smile  played  around  the  lips  of  the  queen,  and  no 
.one  saw  the  distrustful,  timid  look  which  she  cast  at  the 
box,  which  to  her  was  merely  the  memorial  of  a  dreadful 
day. 

"Yes,  my  child,"  she  replied,  mildly,  "we  will  play 
dominoes  often  together,  for  you  certainly  will  be  good  and 
industrious." 

She  controlled  herself  sufficiently  to  thank  the  boys  with 
friendly  words  for  the  present  which  they  had  made  to  the 
dauphin,  and  then  the  deputation,  accompanied  by  the 
king  and  the  little  prince,  withdrew.  But  as  soon  as  they 
had  gone,  the  smile  died  away  upon  her  lips,  and  with  an 
expression  of  horror  she  pointed  to  the  box. 

"  Take  it  away — oh,  take  it  away!"  she  cried,  to  Madame 
de  Tourzel.  "  It  is  a  dreadful  reminder  of  the  past,  a  ter- 

*  The  very  words  of  the  little  officer. 


REVOLUTION   IN    THE   THEATRE.  295 

rible  prophecy  of  the  future.  The  stones  of  the  Bastile, 
which  the  people  destroyed,  lie  in  this  box !  And  the  box 
itself,  does  it  not  look  like  a  sarcophagus?  And  this  sar- 
cophagus bears  the  face  of  the  king!  Oh,  the  sorrow* and 
woe  to  us  unfortunate  ones,  who  can  not  even  receive  gifts 
of  love  without  seeing  them  obscured  by  recollections  of 
hate,  and  who  have  no  joys  that  have  not  bitter  drops  of 
grief  mingled  with  them!  The  revolution  sends  us  storm- 
birds,  and  we  are  to  regard  them  as  doves  bringing  us 
olive-branches.  Believe  me,  I  see  into  the  future,  and  I 
discern  the  deluge  which  will  drown  us  all!" 


BOOK   IV. 
CHAPTER    XIX. 

JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST   10,    1792. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  was  right.  The  revolution  was 
sending  its  storm-birds  to  the  Tuileries.  They  beat  with 
their  strong  pinions  against  the  windows  of  the  palace; 
they  pulled  up  and  broke  with  their  claws  the  flowers  and 
plants  of  the  garden,  so  that  the  royal  family  no  longer 
ventured  to  enter  it.  But  they  had  not  yet  entered  the 
palace  itself;  and  within  its  apartments,  watched  by  the 
National  Guard,  the  queen  was  at  least  safe  from  the  in- 
sults of  the  populace. 

No,  not  even  there  longer,  for  the  storm-birds  of  the 
revolution  beat  against  the  windows,  and  these  windows 
had  once  in  a  while  to  be  opened  to  let  in  a  little  sunshine, 
and  some  fresh  air.  Marie  Antoinette  had  long  given  up 
her  walks  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  for  the  rabble 
which  stood  behind  the  fence  had  insulted  her  so  often 
with  cries  and  acts,  that  she  preferred  to  give  up  her  exer- 
cise rather  than  to  undergo  such  contemptuous  treatment. 

The  king,  too,  in  order  to  escape  the  scornful  treatment 
of  the  populace,  had  relinquished  his  walks,  and  before 
long  things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  the  dauphin  was  not 
allowed  to  visit  his  little  garden.  Marat,  Santerre,  Dan- 
ton,  and  Robespierre,  the  great  leaders  of  the  people,  had, 
by  their  threats  against  the  royalists  and  their  insurrection- 
ary movements  among  the  people,  gained  such  power,  that 
no  one  ventured  to  approach  the  garden  of  the  prince  to 
salute  him,  and  show  deference  to  the  son  of  the  king. 
The  little  regiment  had  been  compelled,  in  order  to  escape 
the  mockery  and  contempt,  the  hatred  and  persecution 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST   10,    1792.  297 

which  followed  them,  to  disband  after  a  few  months;  and 
around  the  fence,  when  the  dauphin  appeared,  there  now 
stood  none  but  men  sent  there  by  the  revolutionists  to  de- 
ride the  dauphin  when  he  appeared,  and  shout  their  wild 
curses  against  the  king  and  queen. 

One  day,  when  a  crowd  of  savage  women  stood  behind 
the  fence,  and  were  giving  vent  to  their  derision  of  the 
queen,  the  poor  dauphin  could  not  restrain  his  grief  and 
indignation.  With  glowing  cheeks  and  flaming  eyes  he 
turned  upon  the  wild  throng. 

"You  lie — oh,  you  lie!"  he  cried,  with  angry  voice. 
"  My  mamma  queen  is  not  a  wicked  woman,  and  she  does 
not  hate  the  people.  My  mamma  queen  is  so  good,  so 
good  that " 

His  tears  choked  his  voice,  and  flowed  in  clear  streams 
down  over  his  cheeks.  Ashamed,  as  it  were,  of  this  in- 
dication of  weakness,  the  dauphin  dashed  out  of  the  gar- 
den, and  hastened  so  rapidly  to  the  palace  that  the  Abbe 
Uavout  could  scarcely  follow  him.  Weeping  and  sobbing, 
the  dauphin  passed  through  the  corridor,  but  when  they 
reached  the  broad  staircase  which  led  to  the  apartments 
where  the  queen  lived,  the  dauphin  stopped,  suppressed 
his  sobs,  and  hastily  dried  his  eyes. 

"  I  will  not  weep  any  more,"  he  said,  "it  would  trouble 
mamma.  I  beg  you,  abbe,  say  nothing  to  mamma.  I  will 
try  to  be  cheerful  and  merry,  for  mamma  queen  likes  much 
to  have  me  so.  Sometimes,  when  she  is  sad  and  has  been 
weeping,  I  make  believe  not  to  notice  it,  and  then  I  laugh 
and  sing,  and  jump  about,  and  then  her  beautiful  face  will 
clear  up,  and  sometimes  she  even  smiles  a  little.  So,  too, 
I  will  be  right  merry,  and  she  shall  notice  nothing.  You 
would  not  suspect  that  I  have  been  weeping,  would  you?" 

"No,  my  prince,  no  one  would  think  you  had,"  an- 
swered the  abbe,  looking  with  deep  emotion  into  the  great 
blue  eyes  which  the  dauphin  turned  up  to  his  with  an  in- 
quiring look. 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  go  to  my  mamma  queen,"  cried  the 
dauphin,  and  he  sprang  forward  and  opened  the  door  with 
a  smile,  and,  half  concealed  behind  the  curtains,  he  asked, 
in  a  esting  tone,  whether  he  might  have  permission  to 
enter  her  majesty's  presence. 


298  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

Marie  Antoinette  bade  him  heartily  welcome,  and  opened 
her  arms  to  him.  The  dauphin  embraced  her  and  pressed 
a  glowing  kiss  upon  her  eyes  and  upon  her  lips. 

"  You  are  extraordinarily  affectionate  to-day,  my  little 
Louis  Charles,"  said  the  queen,  with  a  smile.  "What  is 
the  cause  of  that?" 

"  That  comes  from  the  fact  that  to-day  I  have  nothing 
to  give  you  excepting  kisses — not  a  single  flower.  They 
are  all  withered  in  my  garden,  and  I  do  not  like  to  go 
there  any  more,  for  there  are  no  more  bouquets  to  pluck 
for  my  dear  mamma  queen.  Mamma,  this  is  my  bouquet." 

And  he  kissed  and  caressed  the  queen  afresh,  and 
brought  a  glow  to  her  eyes  and  a  smile  to  her  lips. 

"  Come  now,  my  child,  you  see  that  the  abbe  is  waiting, 
and  I  believe  it  is  time  for  the  study-hours  to  begin. 
What  comes  first  to-day?" 

"We  have  first,  grammar,"  answered  the  abbe,  laying 
the  needful  books  upon  the  little  table  at  which  the  dau- 
phin always  took  his  lessons  in  the  presence  of  the  queen. 

"  Grammar !"  cried  the  dauphin ;  "  I  wish  it  were  history. 
That  I  like,  but  grammar  I  hate!" 

"  That  comes  because  you  make  so  many  mistakes  in  it," 
said  the  abbe;  "  and,  certainly,  grammar  is  very  hard." 

The  child  blushed.  "  Oh,  it  is  not  on  that  account,"  he 
said.  "  I  do  not  dislike  grammar  because  it  is  hard,  but 
merely  because  it  is  tedious." 

"  And  I  will  wager  that  on  that  account  you  have  for- 
gotten what  we  went  over  in  our  last  grammar  hour.  We 
were  speaking  of  the  three  comparatives.  But  you  prob- 
ably do  not  remember  them." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  dauphin,  smiling.  "  In 
proof,  hear  me.  If  I  say,  'My  abbe  is  a  good  abbe,'  that 
is  the  positive.  If  I  say,  'My  abbe  is  better  than  another 
abbe,'  that  is  the  comparative.  And,"  he  continued, 
turning  his  eyes  toward  the  queen  with  an  expression  of 
intense  affection,  "if  I  say,  'My  mamma  is  the  dearest  and 
best  of  all  mammas,'  that  is  the  superlative."  * 

The  queen  drew  the  boy  to  her  heart  and  kissed  him, 
while  her  tears  flowed  down  upon  his  auburn  curls. 

*  The  dauphin's  own  words.— See  Beauchesne's  "Louis  XVII.,"  vol.  i., 
p.  183. 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  299 

On  the  next  day,  at  the  time  of  his  accustomed  walk, 
the  queen  went  into  the  dauphin's  room  to  greet  him  before 
he  went  into  the  garden. 

"Mamma,  I  beg  your  permission  to  remain  here,"  said 
the  dauphin.  "  My  garden  does  not  please  me  any  longer." 

"Why  not,  my  son,"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  "has  any 
thing  happened  to  you?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  he  answered,  "  something  has  happened 
to  me.  There  are  so  many  bad  people  always  standing 
around  the  fence,  and  they  look  at  me  with  such  evil  eyes, 
that  I  am  afraid  of  them,  and  they  scold  and  say  such  hard 
things.  They  laugh  at  me,  and  say  that  I  am  a  stupid 
jack,  a  baker's  boy  that  does  not  know  how  to  make  a  loaf, 
and  they  call  me  a  monkey.  That  angers  me  and  hurts 
my  feelings,  and  if  I  begin  to  cry  I  am  ashamed  of  myself, 
for  I  know  that  it  is  very  silly  to  cry  before  people  who 
mean  ill  to  us.  But  I  am  still  a  poor  little  boy,  and  my 
tears  are  stronger  than  I.  And  so  I  want  you,  mamma, 
not  to  let  me  go  to  the  garden  any  more.  Moufflet  and  I 
would  a  great  deal  rather  play  in  my  room.  Come  here, 
Moufflet,  make  your  compliments  to  the  queen,  and  salute 
her  like  a  regular  grenadier." 

And  smiling,  he  caught  the  little  dog  by  the  fore-paws, 
and  made  him  stand  up  on  his  hind  legs,  and  threatened 
Moufflet  with  his  hand  till  he  made  him  stand  erect  and 
let  his  fore  feet  hang  down  very  respectfully. 

The  queen  looked  down  with  a  smile  at  the  couple,  and 
laughed  aloud  when  the  dauphin,  still  waving  his  hand 
threateningly  to  compel  the  dog  to  stand  as  he  was,  jumped 
up,  ran  to  the  table,  caught  up  a  paper  cap,  which  he  had 
made  and  painted  with  red  stripes,  and  put  it  on  Moufflet's 
head,  calling  out  to  him :  "  Mr.  Jacobin,  behave  respect- 
fully! Make  your  salutations  to  her  majesty  the  queen!" 

After  that  day,  the  dauphin  did  not  go  into  his  garden 
again,  and  the  park  of  the  Tuileries  was  now  the  exclusive 
property  of  the  populace,  that  took  possession  of  it  with 
furious  eagerness. 

The  songs  of  the   revolution,  the  wild   curses   of   the 
haters  of  royalty,  the  coarse  laughter  and  shouting  of  the 
rabble — these  were  the  storm-birds  which  were  beating  at 
the  windows  of  the  royal  apartments. 
20 


300  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  still  one  source  of  enjoyment  left 
to  her  in  her  sufferings,  her  correspondence  with  her  ab- 
sent friends,  and  the  Duchess  de  Polignac  before  all  others. 
Once  in  a  while  there  was  a  favorable  opportunity  to  send 
a  letter  by  the  hands  of  some  faithful  friend  around  her, 
and  the  queen  had  then  the  sad  satisfaction  at  least  of 
being  able  to  express  to  some  sympathizing  heart  what  she 
was  undergoing,  without  fearing  that  these  complaints 
would  be  read  by  her  enemies,  as  was  the  case  with  all  let- 
ters which  were  sent  by  post. 

One  of  these  letters  to  the  Duchess  de  Polignac,  which 
history  has  preserved,  gives  a  faithful  and  touching  pic- 
ture of  the  sorrows  and  grief  of  the  queen.  A  translation 
of  it  runs  thus: 

"  I  cannot  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  embracing  you, 
my  dear  heart,  but  it  must  be  done  quickly,  for  the  oppor- 
tunity is  a  passing  one,  although  a  certain  one.  I  can  only 
write  a  word,  which  will  be  forwarded  to  you  with  a  large 
package.  We  are  guarded  like  criminals,  and  this  restraint 
is  truly  dreadfully  hard  to  bear! — constantly  too  apprehen- 
sive for  one  another,  not  to  be  able  to  approach  the  win- 
dow without  being  loaded  with  insults;  not  to  be  able  to 
take  the  poor  children  out  into  the  air  without  exposing 
the  dear  innocents  to  reproaches,  what  a  situation  is  ours, 
my  dear  heart!  And  when  you  think  that  I  suffer  not  for 
myself  alone,  but  have  to  tremble  for  the  king  as  well,  and 
for  our  friends  who  are  with  us,  you  will  see  that  the  bur- 
den is  well-nigh  unbearable!  But,  as  I  have  told  you 
before,  you  absent  ones,  you  keep  me  up.  Adieu,  dear 
heart,  let  us  hope  in  God,  who  looks  into  our  consciences, 
and  who  knows  whether  we  are  not  animated  by  the  truest 
love  for  this  land.  I  embrace  you ! 

"  P.  S. — The  king  has  just  come  in  and  wants  to  add  a 
word." 

"  I  will  only  say,  duchess,  that  you  are  not  forgotten, 
that  we  regret  receiving  so  few  letters  from  you,  and  that, 
whether  near  or  far  away,  you  and  yours  are  always  loved. 
Louis."* 

*  Beauchesne,  "Louis  XVII.,"  vol.  i.,  p.  143. 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  301 

Not  to  be  able  to  show  one's  self  near  the  window  with- 
out being  showered  with  insults!  Yes,  and  even  into  the 
very  middle  of  her  room  they  followed  her.  Even  when 
sitting  far  away  from  the  window,  she  could  not  help  hear- 
ing the  loud  cries  which  were  thundered  out  on  the  pave- 
ment below,  as  the  hucksters  offered  to  the  laughing  crowd 
the  infamous  pamphlet,  written  with  a  poisoned  pen,  and 
entitled  "  The  Life  of  Marie  Antoinette." 

At  times  her  anger  mastered  her,  her  eyes  flashed,  her 
figure  was  straightened  up,  and  the  suffering  martyr  was 
transformed  for  an  instant  into  the  proud,  commanding 
queen. 

"I  will  not  bear  it!"  she  cried,  walking  up  and  down 
with  great  strides.  "  I  will  speak  to  them ;  they  shall  not 
insult  me  without  hearing  my  justification.  Yes,  I  will 
go  down  to  these  people,  who  call  me  a  foreigner.  I  will 
say  to  them,  'Frenchmen,  people  have  had  the  want  of  feel- 
ing to  tell  you  that  I  do  not  love  France,  I,  the  mother  of  a 
dauphin,  I '  "  * 

But  her  voice  choked  in  her  tears,  and  she  fled  to  the 
extreme  end  of  the  room,  fell  sobbing  on  her  knees,  and 
held  both  her  hands  to  her  ears,  in  order  not  to  hear  the 
dreadful  insults  which  came  up  from  below  and  through 
her  windows. 

Thus,  amid  trials  which  renewed  themselves  daily,  the 
months  passed  by.  The  queen  had  no  longer  any  hope. 
She  had  given  up  every  thing,  even  the  hope  of  an  honor- 
able end,  of  a  death  such  as  becomes  a  queen,  proud  and 
dignified  beneath  the  ruins  of  a  palace  laid  low  by  an  ex- 
asperated populace.  She  knew  that  the  king  would  never 
bring  himself  to  meet  such  a  death,  that  his  weakness 
would  yield  to  all  humiliation,  and  his  good-nature  resist 
all  measures  that  might  perhaps  bring  help.  She  had 
sought  in  vain  to  inspire  him  with  her  zeal.  Louis  was  a 
good  man,  but  a  bad  king;  his  was  not  a  nature  to  rule 
and  govern,  but  rather  to  serve  as  the  scape-goat  for  the 
sins  of  his  fathers,  and  to  fall  as  a  victim  for  the  misdeeds 
which  his  ancestors  had  committed,  and  through  which 
they  had  excited  the  wrath  of  the  people,  the  divine  Ne- 
mesis that  never  sleeps. 

*The  queen's  own  words.— See  Campan,  "Memoires,"  vol.  ii. 


MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

The  queen  knew  and  felt  this,  and  this  knowledge  lay 
like  a  mourning  veil  over  her  whole  thought  and  being, 
filling  her  at  times  with  a  moody  resignation,  and  at  times 
with  a  swiftly-kindling  and  wrathful  pain. 

"  I  am  content  that  we  be  the  victims,"  cried  she,  wring- 
ing her  hands,  "  but  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  my  chil- 
dren too  are  to  be  punished  for  what  they  have  not 
committed." 

This  thought  of  her  children  was  the  pillar  which  always 
raised  the  queen  up  again,  when  the  torture  of  her  daily 
life  cast  her  to  the  ground.  She  would,  she  must  live  for 
her  children.  She  must,  so  long  as  a  breath  remained  in 
her,  devote  all  her  powers  to  retain  for  her  son  the  dauphin 
at  least  the  crown  beneath  whose  burden  his  father  sank. 
She  wanted  nothing  more  for  herself,  all  for  her  son  alone. 

There  were  still  true  friends  who  wanted  to  save  the 
queen.  Secret  tidings  came  to  her  that  all  was  ready  for 
her  escape.  It  was  against  her  that  the  popular  rage  was 
chiefly  directed,  and  her  life  was  even  threatened.  Twice 
had  the  attempt  been  made  to  kill  the  queen,  and  the  most 
violent  denunciations  of  the  populace  were  directed 
against  her.  It  was  therefore  the  queen  whom  her  friends 
wanted  most  to  save.  Every  thing  was  prepared  for  the 
flight,  true  and  devoted  friends  were  waiting  for  her, 
ready  to  conduct  her  to  the  boundaries  of  France,  where 
she  should  meet  deputies  sent  by  her  nephew,  the  Emperor 
Francis.  The  plan  was  laid  with  the  greatest  care;  noth- 
ing but  the  consent  of  the  queen  was  needed  to  bring  it  to 
completion,  and  save  her  from  certain  destruction.  But 
Marie  Antoinette  withheld  her  acquiescence.  "  It  is  of  no 
consequence  about  my  life,"  she  said.  "I  know  that  I 
must  die,  and  I  am  prepared  for  it.  If  the  king  and  my 
children  cannot  escape  with  me,  I  remain;  for  my  place  is 
at  the  side  of  my  husband  and  my  children." 

At  last  the  king  himself,  inspired  by  the  courage  and 
energy  of  his  wife,  ventured  to  oppose  the  decisions  and 
decrees  of  the  all-powerful  Assembly.  It  had  put  forth 
two  new  decrees.  It  had  resolved  upon  the  deportation  of 
all  priests  beyond  the  limits  of  France,  and  also  upon  the 
establishment  of  a  camp  of  twenty  thousand  men  on  the 
Ehine  frontier.  With  the  latter  there  had  been  coupled 


JUNE    20   AND    AUGUST    10,    1792.  303 

a  warning,  threatening  with  death  all  who  should  spend 
any  time  abroad,  and  engage  in  any  armed  movement 
against  their  own  country. 

To  both  these  decrees  Louis  refused  his  sanction;  both 
he  vetoed  on  the  20th  of  June,  1792. 

The  populace,  which  thronged  the  doors  of  the  National 
Assembly  in  immense  masses,  among  whom  the  emissaries 
of  revolution  had  been  very  active,  received  the  news  of 
the  king's  veto  with  a  howl  of  rage.  The  storm-birds  of 
revolution  flew  through  the  streets,  and  shouted  into  all 
the  windows:  "  The  country  is  in  danger !  The  king  has 
been  making  alliances  abroad.  The  Austrian  woman  wants 
to  summon  the  armies  of  her  own  land  against  France,  and 
therefore  the  king  has  vetoed  the  decree  which  punishes 
the  betrayers  of  their  country.  A  curse  on  M.  Veto! 
Down  with  Madame  Veto!  That  is  the  cry  to-day  for  the 
revolutionary  party.  A  curse  on  M.  Veto!  Down  with 
Madame  Veto!" 

The  watch-cry  rolled  like  a  peal  of  thunder  through  all 
the  streets  and  into  all  the  houses ;  and,  while  within  their 
closed  doors,  and  in  the  stillness  of  their  own  homes,  the 
well-disposed  praised  the  king  for  having  the  courage  to 
protect  the  priests  and  the  emigres,  the  evil-disposed  bel- 
lowed out  their  curses  through  all  the  streets,  and  called 
upon  the  rabble  to  avenge  themselves  upon  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Veto. 

Nobody  prevented  this.  The  National  Assembly  let 
every  thing  go  quietly  on,  and  waited  with  perfect  indiffer- 
ence to  see  what  the  righteous  anger  of  the  people  should 
resolve  to  do. 

Immense  masses  of  howling,  shrieking  people  rolled  up, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  20th  of  June,  to  the  Tuileries, 
where  no  arrangements  had  been  made  for  defence,  the 
main  entrances  not  even  being  protected  that  day  by  the 
National  Guard. 

The  king  gave  orders,  therefore,  that  the  great  doors 
should  be  opened,  and  the  people  allowed  to  pass  in 
unhindered. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  all  the  staircases,  corridors,  and 
halls  were  filled  by  a  howling,  roaring  crowd ;  the  room  of 
the  king  alone  was  locked,  and  in  this  apartment  were  the 


304  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

royal  family  and  a  few  faithful  friends — the  king,  bland 
and  calm  as  ever;  the  queen,  pale,  firm,  uncomplaining; 
Madame  Elizabeth,  with  folded  hands,  praying;  the  two 
children  drawing  closely  together,  softly  weeping,  and  yet 
suppressing  their  sobs,  because  the  queen  had,  in  a  whis- 
per, commanded  them  to  keep  still. 

A  little  company  of  faithful  servants  filled  the  back- 
ground of  the  room,  and  listened  with  suspended  breath  to 
the  axe-strokes  with  which  the  savage  crowd  broke  down  the 
doors,  and  heard  the  approaching  cries  of  the  multitude. 

At  last  a  division  of  the  National  Guard  reached  the  pal- 
ace, too  late  to  drive  the  people  out,  but  perhaps  in  season 
to  protect  the  royal  family.  The  door  of  the  royal  apart- 
ment was  opened  to  the  second  officer  of  the  National 
Guard,  M.  Acloque.  He  burst  in,  and  kneeling  before 
the  king,  conjured  him,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  show 
himself  to  the  people,  and  by  his  presence  to  calm  the  sav- 
age multitude. 

By  this  time  the  two  children  were  no  longer  able  to 
control  their  feelings  and  suppress  their  fear.  The  dau- 
phin burst  into  tears  and  loud  cries;  he  clung  affrighted 
to  the  dress  of  his  mother ;  he  implored  her  with  the  most 
moving  tones  to  take  him  away,  and  go  with  him  to  his 
room.  Marie  Antoinette  stooped  down  to  the  poor  little 
fellow,  and  pressed  him  and  Theresa,  who  was  weeping 
calmly,  to  her  heart,  whispering  a  few  quieting  words  into 
their  ears. 

While  the  mother  was  comforting  her  children,  Louis, 
yielding  to  Acloque's  entreaties,  had  left  the  room,  in 
order  to  show  himself  to  the  people.  Madame  Elizabeth, 
his  sister,  followed  him  through  the  corridor  into  the 
great  hall,  passing  through  the  seething  crowd,  which 
soon  separated  her  from  the  king.  Pushed  about  on  all 
sides,  Madame  Elizabeth  could  not  follow,  and  was  now 
alone  in  the  throng,  accompanied  only  by  her  equerry, 
M.  Saint- Pardoux.  Armed  men  pressed  up  against  the 
princess,  and  horrid  cries  surged  around  her. 

"There  is  the  Austrian  woman!"  and  at  once  all  pikes, 
all  weapons  were  directed  against  the  princess. 

"For  God's  sake!"  cried  M.  de  Saint  Pardoux,  "what 
do  you  want  to  do?  This  is  not  the  queen!" 


JUNE    20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  305 

"Why  do  you  undeceive  them?"  asked  Madame  Eliz- 
abeth, "their  error  might  save  the  queen!" 

And  while  she  put  back  one  of  the  bayonets  directed 
against  her  breast,  she  said,  gently :  "  Take  care,  sir,  you 
might  wound  somebody,  and  I  am  convinced  that  you  would 
be  sorry." 

The  people  were  amazed  at  this,  and  respectfully  made 
way  for  her  to  come  up  with  the  king.  He  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  threatening  him 
with  wild  curses.  One  of  these  desperadoes  pressed  close 
up  to  the  king,  while  the  others  were  shouting  that  they 
must  strangle  the  whole  royal  family,  and,  pulling  a  bottle 
and  a  glass  out  of  his  pocket,  he  filled  the  latter,  gave  it 
to  the  king,  and  ordered  him  to  drink  to  the  welfare  of 
the  nation. 

The  king  quietly  took  the  glass.  "  The  nation  must 
know  that  I  love  it,"  said  he,  "  for  I  have  made  many  sac- 
rifices for  it.  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  1  drink  to  its 
welfare,"  and,  in  spite  of  the  warning  cries  of  his  friends, 
he  put  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  emptied  it. 

The  crowd  was  beside  itself  with  delight,  and  their  cries 
were  answered  from  without  by  the  demand  of  the  blood- 
thirsty rabble — "  How  soon  are  you  going  to  throw  out  the 
heads  of  the  king  and  the  queen?" 

Marie  Antoinette  had  meanwhile  succeeded  in  pacifying 
the  dauphin.  She  raised  herself  up,  and  when  she  saw 
that  the  king  had  gone  out,  she  started  toward  the  door. 

Her  faithful  friends  stopped  the  way;  they  reminded 
her  that  she  was  not  simply  a  queen,  that  she  was  a 
mother,  too.  They  conjured  her  with  tears  to  give  ear  to 
prudence — not  to  rush  in  vain  into  danger,  and  imperil 
the  king  still  more. 

"  No  one  shall  hinder  me  from  doing  what  is  my  duty," 
cried  the  queen.  "  Leave  the  doorway  free." 

But  her  friends  would  not  yield ;  they  defied  even  the 
wrath  of  the  queen.  At  that  moment,  some  of  the  Na- 
tional Guards  came  in  through  another  door,  and  pacified 
Marie  Antoinette,  assuring  her  that  the  life  of  the  king 
was  not  threatened. 

In  the  mean  while  the  shouting  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
the  cries  resounded  from  the  guard-room,  the  doors  were 


306  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

torn  open,  and  the  people  surged  in,  in  immense  waves, 
like  the  sea  lashed  into  fury  by  the  storm.  The  National 
Guards  rolled  a  table  before  the  queen  and  her  children, 
and  placed  themselves  at  the  two  sides  to  defend  them. 

Only  a  bit  of  wood  now  separated  the  queen  from  her 
enemies,  who  brandished  their  weapons  at  her.  But  Marie 
Antoinette  had  noAV  regained  her  whole  composure.  She 
stood  erect;  at  her  right  hand,  her  daughter,  who  nestled 
up  to  her  mother — at  her  left,  the  dauphin,  who,  with 
wide-open  eyes  and  looks  of  astonishment,  gazed  at  the 
people  bursting  in.  Behind  the  queen  were  Princesses 
Lamballe  and  Tarente,  and  Madame  Tourzel. 

A  man,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  bare  bosom,  gave  the 
queen  a  handful  of  rods,  bearing  the  inscription,  "For 
Marie  Antoinette!"  Another  showed  her  a  guillotine,  a 
third  a  gallows,  with  the  inscription,  "Tremble,  tyrant! 
thy  hour  has  come!"  Another  held  up  before  her,  on  the 
point  of  a  pike,  a  human  heart  dripping  with  blood,  and 
cried :  "  Thus  shall  they  all  bleed — the  hearts  of  tyrants 
and  aristocrats!" 

The  queen  did  not  let  her  eyes  fall,  her  fixed  look  rested 
upon  the  shrieking  and  howling  multitude;  but  when  this 
man,  with  the  bleeding  heart,  approached  her,  her  eyelids 
trembled — a  deathly  paleness  spread  over  her  cheeks,  for 
she  recognized  him — Simon  the  cobbler — and  a  fearful 
presentiment  told  her  that  this  man,  who  had  always  been 
for  her  the  incarnation  of  hatred,  is  now,  when  her  life  is 
threatened,  to  be  the  source  of  her  chief  peril. 

From  the  distance  surged  in  the  cries:  "  Long  live  San- 
terre!  Long  live  the  Faubourg  Saint  An toine !  Long  live 
the  sans-culottes  !  " 

And  at  the  head  of  a  crowd  of  half-naked  fellows,  the 
brewer  Santerre,  arrayed  in  the  fantastic  costume  of  a  rob- 
ber of  the  Abruzzo  Mountains,  with  a  dagger  and  pistol  in 
his  girdle,  dashed  into  the  room,  his  broad-brimmed  hat, 
with  three  red  plumes,  aslant  upon  his  brown  hair,  that 
streamed  down  on  both  sides  of  his  savage  countenance, 
like  the  mane  of  a  lion. 

The  queen  lifted  the  dauphin  up,  set  him  upon  the 
table,  and  whispered  softly  to  him,  he  must  not  cry,  he 
must  not  grieve,  and  the  child  smiled  and  kissed  his 


JUNE    20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1793.  307 

mother's  hands.  Just  then  a  drunken  woman  rushed  up 
to  the  table,  threw  a  red  cap  down  upon  it,  and  ordered 
the  queen,  on  pain  of  death,  to  put  it  on. 

Marie  Antoinette  threw  both  her  arms  around  the  dau- 
phin, kissed  his  auburn  hair,  and  turned  calmly  to  General 
de  Wittgenhofen,  who  stood  near  her. 

"Put  the  cap  upon  me,"  said  she,  and  the  women 
howled  with  pleasure,  while  the  general,  pale  with  rage 
and  trembling  with  grief,  obeyed  the  queen's  command, 
and  put  the  red  cap  upon  that  hair  which  trouble  had 
already  turned  gray  in  a  night. 

But,  after  a  minute,  General  Wittgenhofen  took  the  red 
cap  from  the  head  of  the  queen,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

From  all  sides  resounded  thus  the  commanding  cry: 
"  The  red  cap  for  the  dauphin !  The  tri-color  for  Little 
Veto!"  And  the  women  tore  their  three-colored  ribbons 
from  their  caps  and  threw  them  upon  the  table. 

"If  you  love  the  nation,"  cried  the  women  to  the  queen, 
"put  the  red  cap  on  your  son." 

The  queen  motioned  to  Madame  Tourzel,  who  put  the 
red  cap  on  the  dauphin,  and  decked  his  neck  and  arms 
with  the  ribbons.  The  child  did  not  understand  whether 
it  was  a  joke  or  a  way  of  insulting  him,  and  looked  on 
with  a  smile  of  astonishment. 

Santerre  leaned  over  the  table  and  looked  complacently 
at  the  singular  group.  The  proud  and  yet  gentle  face  of 
the  queen  was  so  near  him,  that  when  he  saw  the  sweat- 
drops  rolling  down  from  beneath  the  woollen  cap  over  the 
dauphin's  forehead,  even  he  felt  a  touch  of  pity,  and, 
straightening  himself  up,  perhaps  to  escape  the  eye  of  the 
queen,  he  called  out,  roughly :  "  Take  that  cap  off  from 
that  child;  don't  you  see  how  he  sweats?" 

The  queen  thanked  him  with  a  mute  glance,  and  took 
the  cap  herself  from  the  head  of  the  poor  child. 

At  this  point  a  horde  of  howling  women  pressed  up  to 
the  table,  and  threatened  the  queen  with  their  fists,  and 
hurled  wild  curses  at  her. 

"  Only  see  how  proudly  and  scornfully  this  Austrian 
looks  at  us!"  cried  a  young  woman,  who  stood  in  the  front 
rank.  "  She  would  like  to  blast  us  with  her  eyes,  for  she 
hates  us." 


308  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

Marie  Antoinette  turned  kindly  to  them :  "  Why  should 
I  hate  you?"  she  asked,  in  gentle  tones.  "  It  is  you  that 
hate  me — you.  Have  I  ever  done  you  any  harm?" 

"Not  to  me,"  answered  the  young  woman,  "not  to  me, 
but  to  the  nation." 

"Poor  child!"  answered  the  queen,  gently,  "  they  have 
told  you  so,  and  you  have  believed  it.  What  advantage 
would  it  bring  to  me  to  harm  the  nation?  You  call  me  the 
Austrian,  but  I  am  the  wife  of  the  King  of  France,  the 
mother  of  the  dauphin.  I  am  French  with  all  my  feelings 
of  wife  and  mother.  I  shall  never  see  again  the  land  in 
which  I  was  born,  and  only  in  France  can  I  be  happy  or 
unhappy.  And  when  you  loved  me,  I  was  happy  there."  * 

She  said  this  with  quivering  voice  and  moving  tones,  the 
tears  filling  her  eyes;  and  while  she  was  speaking  the  noise 
was  hushed,  and  even  these  savage  creatures  were  trans- 
formed into  gentle,  sympathetic  women. 

Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  young  woman  who  before 
had  spoken  so  savagely  to  the  queen.  "Forgive  me,"  she 
said,  weeping,  "  I  did  not  know  you ;  now  I  see  that  you 
are  not  bad." 

"No,  she  is  not  bad,"  cried  Santerre,  striking  with  both 
fists  upon  the  table,  "  but  bad  people  have  misled  her,"  and 
a  second  time  he  struck  the  table  with  his  resounding 
blows.  Marie  Antoinette  trembled  a  little,  and  hastily 
lifting  the  dauphin  from  the  table,  she  put  him  by  her 
side. 

"Ah!  madame,"  cried  Santerre,  smiling,  "don't  be 
afraid,  they  will  do  you  no  harm ;  but  just  think  how  you 
have  been  misled,  and  how  dangerous  it  is  to  deceive  the 
people.  I  tell  you  that  in  the  name  of  the  people.  For 
the  rest,  you  needn't  fear." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  calmly;  "no 
one  need  ever  be  afraid  who  is  among  brave  people,"  and 
with  a  graceful  gesture  she  extended  her  hands  to  the  Na- 
tional Guards  who  stood  by  the  table. 

A  general  shout  of  applause  followed  the  words  of  the 
queen ;  the  National  Guards  covered  her  hands  with  kisses, 
and  even  the  women  were  touched. 

" How  courageous  the  Austrian  is!"  cried  one.     "How 

*  The  queen's  own  words.— See  Beauchesne,  vol.  1.,  p.  106. 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  309 

handsome  the  prince  is!"  cried  another,  and  all  pressed 
up  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  dauphin,  and  a  smile  or  a 
look  from  him. 

The  great  eyes  of  Santerre  remained  fixed  upon  the 
queen,  and  resting  both  arms  upon  the  table  he  leaned  over 
to  her  until  his  mouth  was  close  by  her  ear. 

"Madame,"  he  whispered,  "you  have  very  unskilful 
friends;  'I  know  people  who  would  serve  you  better, 
who " 

But  as  if  ashamed  of  this  touch  of  sympathy,  he  stopped, 
sprang  back  from  the  table,  and  with  a  thunclering  voice, 
commanded  all  present  to  march  out  and  leave  the  palace. 

They  obeyed  his  command,  filed  out  in  military  order 
past  the  table,  behind  which  stood  the  queen  with  her 
children  and  her  faithful  friends. 

A  rare  procession,  a  rare  army,  consisting  of  men  armed 
with  pikes,  hatchets,  and  spades,  of  women  brandishing 
knives  and  scissors  in  their  hands,  and  all  directing  their 
countenances,  before  hyena-like  and  scornful,  but  now  sub- 
dued and  sympathetic,  to  the  queen,  who  with  calm  eye 
and  gentle  look  responded  to  the  salutations  of  the  retreat- 
ing crowd  with  a  friendly  nod. 

In  the  mean  while  the  long-delayed  help  had  reached  the 
king:  the  National  Guards  had  overcome  the  raging  mul- 
titude, and  gained  possession  of  the  great  reception-room 
where  Louis  was.  The  mayor  of  Paris,  Petion,  had  come 
at  last,  and,  hailed  loudly  by  the  crowd  which  occupied 
the  whole  space  in  the  rear  of  the  National  Guards,  he  ap- 
proached the  king. 

"Sire,"  said  he,  "I  have  just  learned  what  is  going  on 
here." 

"  I  am  surprised  at  that,"  answered  the  king,  with  a  re- 
proachful look,  "  the  mayor  of  Paris  ought  to  have  learned 
before  this  about  this  tumult,  which  has  now  been  lasting 
three  hours." 

"But  is  now  at  an  end,  sire,  since  I  have  come,"  cried 
Petion,  proudly.  "  You  have  now  nothing  more  to  fear, 
sire." 

'  To  fear?"  replied  Louis  with  a  proud  shrug.  "  A  man 
who  has  a  good  conscience  does  not  fear.  Feel,"  he  said, 
taking  the  hand  of  the  grenadier  who  stood  at  his  side, 


310  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  lay  your  hand  upon  my  heart,  and  tell  this  man  whether 
it  beats  faster."  * 

Petion  now  turned  to  the  people  and  commanded  them 
to  withdraw.  "Fellow-citizens,"  said  he,  "you  began  this 
day  wisely  and  worthily;  you  have  proved  that  you  are 
free.  End  the  day  as  you  began  it.  Separate  peaceably ; 
do  as  I  do,  return  to  your  houses,  and  go  to  bed!" 

The  multitude,  nattered  by  Petion's  praises,  began  to 
withdraw,  and  the  National  Guards  escorted  the  king  into 
the  great  council-chamber,  where  a  deputation  of  the  Na- 
tional Assembly  had  met  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  king. 

"  Where  is  the  queen,  where  are  the  children?"  cried  the 
king,  as,  exhausted,  he  sank  into  a  chair. 

His  gentlemen  hastened  out  to  bring  them,  and  soon  the 
queen  and  the  children  came  in.  With  extended  arms 
Marie  Antoinette  hastened  to  her  husband,  and  they  re- 
mained a  long  time  locked  in  their  embrace. 

"Papa  king,"  cried  the  dauphin,  "give  me  a  kiss,  too! 
I  have  deserved  it,  for  I  was  brave  and  did  not  cry  when 
the  people  put  the  red  cap  on  my  head." 

The  king  stooped  down  to  the  child  and  kissed,  his 
golden  hair,  and  then  pressed  his  little  daughter,  who  was 
nestling  up  to  him,  to  his  heart. 

The  deputies  stood  with  curious  looks  around  the  group, 
to  whom  it  was  not  granted,  even  after  such  a  fearful  day 
and  such  imminent  peril,  to  embrace  each  other,  and 
thank  God  for  their  preservation,  without  witnesses. 

"Confess,  madame,"  said  one  of  the  deputies  to  Marie 
Antoinette,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  confess  that  you  have 
experienced  great  anxiety." 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  queen,  "I  have  not  been  anxious, 
but  I  have  suffered  severely,  because  I  was  separated  from 
the  king  at  a  moment  when  his  life  was  threatened.  I  had 
at  least  my  children  with  me,  and  so  could  discharge  one 
of  my  duties." 

"  I  will  not  excuse  every  thing  that  took  place  to-day," 

*  The  king's  words.  The  grenadier's  name  whose  hand  the  king  took,  was 
Lalanne.  Later,  in  the  second  year  of  "the  one  and  indivisible  republic,"  he 
was  condemned  to  die  by  the  guillotine,  because,  as  stated  in  the  sentence, 
he  showed  himself  on  the  20th  of  June,  1792.  as  a  common  servant  of  tyranny, 
and  boasted  to  other  citizens  that  Capet  took  his  hand,  laid  it  upon  his  heart, 
and  said:  "Feel,  my  friend,  whether  it  beats  quicker."— See  Hue,  "Dernieres 
Annees  de  Louis  Seize,"  p.  180. 


JUNE    20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  311 

said  the  deputy,  with  a  shrug.  "  But  confess  at  least, 
madame,  that  the  people  conducted  themselves  very 
well." 

"  Sir,  the  king  and  I  are  convinced  of  the  natural  good- 
nature of  the  people;  they  are  only  bad  when  they  are  led 
astray." 

Some  other  deputies  approached  the  dauphin,  and 
directed  various  questions  to  him,  in  order  to  convince 
themselves  about  his  precocious  understanding  that  was  so 
much  talked  about. 

One  of  the  gentlemen,  speaking  of  the  day  that  had 
gone  by,  compared  it  with  St.  Bartholomew's  night. 

"The  comparison  does  not  hold,"  cried  another:  "here 
is  no  Charles  the  Ninth." 

"And  no  Catherine  de  Medicis  either,"  said  the  dau- 
phin, quickly,  pressing  the  hand  of  the  queen  to  his  lips. 

"Oh!  see  the  little  scholar,"  cried  the  by-standers. 
"  Let  us  see  whether  he  knows  as  much  about  geography  as 
about  history!" 

And  all  pressed  up  to  him,  to  put  questions  to  him  about 
the  situation  and  boundaries  of  France,  and  about  the 
division  of  the  French  territory  into  departments  and  dis- 
tricts. The  prince  answered  all  these  questions  quickly 
and  correctly.  After  every  answer  he  cast  an  inquiring 
glance  at  the  queen,  and  when  he  read  in  her  looks  that 
his  answer  had  been  correct,  his  eyes  brightened,  and  his 
cheeks  glowed  with  pleasure. 

"Our  dauphin  is  really  very  learned,"  cried  one  of  the 
deputies.  "  I  should  like  to  know  whether  he  has  paid  any 
attention  yet  to  the  arts.  Do  you  love  music,  my  little 
prince?" 

"Ah,  sir,"  answered  the  dauphin,  eagerly,  "whoever 
has  heard  mamma  sing  and  play,  must  love  music!" 

"  Do  you  sing  too,  prince?" 

The  dauphin  raised  his  eyes  to  his  mother.  "  Mamma," 
he  asked,  "  shall  I  sing  the  prayer  of  this  morning?" 

Marie  Antoinette  nodded.  "  Sing  it,  my  son,  for  per- 
haps God  heard  it  this  morning,  and  has  graciously  an- 
swered it." 

The  dauphin  sank  upon  his  knees,  and  folding  his 
hands,  he  raised  his  head  and  turned  his  blue  eyes  toward 


312  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

heaven,  and,  with  a  sweet  voice  and  a  mild,  smiling  look, 
he  sang  these  words : 

"Ciel,  entends  la  priere 
Qu'ici  je  fais; 
Conserve  un  si  bon  pSre 
A  ses  su  jets. "  * 

A  deep,  solemn  silence  reigned  while  the  dauphin's  voice 
rang  through  the  room.  The  faces  of  the  deputies, 
hitherto  defiant  and  severe,  softened,  deeply  moved.  They 
all  looked  at  the  beautiful  boy,  who  was  still  on  his  knees, 
his  countenance  beaming,  and  with  a  smile  upon  it  like 
the  face  of  one  in  a  blissful  dream.  No  one  ventured  to 
break  the  silence.  The  king,  whose  arm  was  thrown 
around  the  neck  of  his  daughter,  looked  affectionately  at 
the  dauphin;  Madame  Elizabeth  had  folded  her  hands,  and 
was  praying;  but  Marie  Antoinette,  no  longer  able  to  con- 
trol her  deep  emotion,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  wept  in  silence. 

From  this  day  the  life  of  the  royal  family  was  one  of 
constant  excitement — an  incessant,  feverish  expectation  of 
coming  evil.  The  king  bore  it  all  with  an  uncomplaining 
resignation;  no  one  drew  from  him  a  complaint,  no  one  a 
reproach.  But  the  thought  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him 
that  perhaps  even  yet  safety  might  be  attained  by  energy, 
by  spirit,  or  even  by  flight. 

He  had  surrendered  all;  he  was  ready  to  suffer  as  a 
Christian  instead  of  rising  as  a  king,  and  preferred  to  fall 
in  honorable  battle  rather  than  to  live  despised. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  given  up  her  efforts  to  inspire  her 
husband  with  her  own  energetic  will.  She  knew  that  all 
was  in  vain,  and  had  accepted  her  fate.  Since  she  could 
not  live  as  a  queen,  she  would  at  least  die  as  one.  She 
made  her  preparations  for  this  calmly  and  with  character- 
istic decision.  "They  will  kill  me,  I  know,"  she  said  to 
her  maids.  "  I  have  only  one  duty  left  me,  to  prepare  my- 
self to  die!" 

She  lost  her  accustomed  spirit,  wept  much,  and  exhibited 

*  See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,p.  146.  This  scene  is  historical.  See  Hue,  "Der- 
niSres  Ann6es  de  Louis  XVI."  This  prayer  is  from  the  opera  so  much  ad- 
mired at  that  time,  "Peter  the  Great:" 

"O  Heaven,  accept  the  prayer, 

I  offer  here ; 
Unto  his  subjects  spare 
My  father  dear." 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  313 

a  great  deal  of  feeling.  Yet  she  still  stood  guard  over  the 
shattered  throne  like  a  resolute  sentinel,  and  looked  around 
with  sharp  and  searching  glances,  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
enemy,  and  to  be  ready  for  his  nearer  approach. 

She  still  continued  to  receive  news  about  every  thing 
that  transpired  in  Paris,  every  thing  that  was  resolved 
upon  in  the  National  Assembly  and  discussed  in  the  clubs, 
and  had  the  libels  and  pamphlets  which  were  directed  at 
her  all  sent  to  her.  Marie  Antoinette  understood  the  con- 
dition of  the  capital  and  the  feeling  of  the  people  better 
than  did  the  king  (who  often  sat  for  hours,  and  at  times 
whole  days,  silent  and  unoccupied)  better  even  than  did 
the  ministers.  She  received  every  morning  the  reports  of 
the  emissaries,  followed  the  intrigues  of  the  conspirators, 
and  was  acquainted  with  the  secret  assemblies  which  Marat 
called  together,  and  the  alliances  of  the  clubs.  She  knew 
about  the  calling  together  of  the  forty-eight  sections  of 
the  Paris  "  fraternity"  in  one  general  convention.  She 
knew  that  Petion,  Danton,  and  Manuel,  three  raving  re- 
publicans, were  at  the  head,  and  that  their  emissaries  were 
empowered  to  stir  up  the  suburbs  of  the  city.  She  knew, 
too,  that  the  monsters  from  Marseilles,  who  had  been 
active  on  the  20th  of  June,  were  boasting  that  they  were 
going  to  repeat  the  deeds  of  that  day  on  a  greater  scale. 
Nor  was  it  unknown  to  her  that  more  than  half  the  depu- 
ties in  the  National  Assembly  belonged  to  the  Jacobin 
party,  and  that  they  were  looking  for  an  opportunity  to 
strike  a  fresh  blow  at  royalty.  Very  often,  when  at  dead 
of  night  Marie  Antoinette  heard  the  noisy  chorus  of  the 
rioters  from  Marseilles  singing  beneath  her  windows, 
"  Allons,  enfants  de  la  patrie"  or  the  Parisians  chanting 
the  "  Qa  ira,  fa  ira!  "  she  sprang  from  her  bed  (she  now 
never  disrobed  herself  on  retiring),  hurried  to  the  beds  of 
her  children  to  see  that  they  were  not  in  danger,  or  called 
her  maids  and  commanded  them  to  light  the  candles,  that 
they  might  at  least  see  the  danger  which  threatened. 

At  last,  on  the  night  of  the  9th  of  August,  the  long- 
feared  terror  arrived. 

A  gun  fired  in  the  court  of  the  Tuileries  announced  its 
advent.  Marie  Antoinette  sprang  from  her  bed,  and  sent 
her  waiting-maid  to  the  king  to  waken  him.  The  king 


314  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

had  already  risen;  his  ministers  and  a  few  tried  friends 
were  now  with  him.  The  queen  wakened  her  children, 
and  assisted  in  dressing  them.  She  then  went  with  the 
little  ones  to  the  king,  who  received  them  with  an  affec- 
tionate greeting.  At  length  a  blast  of  trumpets  announced 
that  the  movement  had  become  general;  the  thunder  of 
cannon  and  the  peals  of  bells  awakened  the  sleeping  city. 

The  royal  family,  crowded  close  together,  silently  awaited 
the  stalking  of  the  republic  into  the  halls  of  the  king's 
palace,  or  the  saving  of  the  monarchy  by  the  grace  of  God 
and  the  bravery  of  their  faithful  friends.  For  even  then 
monarchy  had  those  who  were  true  to  it ;  and  while  the 
trumpet-blasts  continued  and  the  bells  to  ring,  to  awaken 
republicans  to  the  struggle,  the  sounds  were  at  the  same 
time  the  battle-cry  of  the  royalists,  and  told  them  that  the 
king  was  in  danger  and  needed  their  help. 

About  two  hundred  noblemen  had  remained  in  Paris, 
and  had  not  followed  the  royal  princes  to  Coblentz  to  take 
arms  against  their  own  country.  They  had  remained  in 
Paris,  in  order  to  defend  the  monarchy  to  the  last  drop  of 
their  blood,  and  at  least  to  be  near  the  throne,  if  they  were 
not  able  to  hold  it  up  longer.  In  order  not  to  be  sus- 
pected, they  carried  no  arms,  and  yet  it  was  known  that 
beneath  the  silk  vest  of  the  cavalier  they  concealed  the 
dagger  of  the  soldier,  and  they  received  in  consequence 
the  appellation  of  "  Chevaliers  of  the  Dagger." 

At  the  first  notes  of  the  trumpet  the  nobility  had  hur- 
ried on  the  night  of  the  10th  of  August  to  the  Tuileries, 
which  were  already  filled  with  grenadiers,  Swiss  guards, 
and  volunteers  of  every  rank,  who  had  hastened  thither  to 
protect  the  royal  family.  All  the  staircases,  all  the  corri- 
dors and  rooms,  were  occupied  by  them. 

The  "  Chevaliers  of  the  Dagger"  marched  in  solemn  pro- 
cession by  them  all  to  the  grand  reception-room,  where 
were  the  king,  the  queen,  and  the  children.  With  respect- 
ful mien  they  approached  the  royal  pair,  imploring  the 
king's  permission  to  die  for  him,  and  beseeching  the  queen 
to  touch  their  weapons,  in  order  to  make  them  victorious, 
and  to  allow  them  to  kiss  the  royal  hand,  in  order  to 
sweeten  death  for  them.  There  were  cries  of  enthusiasm 
and  loyalty  on  all  sides.  "  Long  live  the  king  of  our 


JUNE    20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  315 

fathers!"  cried  the  young  people.  "  Long  live  the  king  of 
our  children !"  cried  the  old  men,  taking  the  dauphin  in 
their  arms  and  raising  him  above  their  heads,  as  if  he  were 
the  living  banner  in  whose  defence  they  wished  to  die. 

As  the  morning  dawned,  the  king,  at  the  pressing  re- 
quest of  his  wife,  walked  with  her  and  the  children  through 
the  halls  and  galleries  of  the  palace,  to  reanimate  the  cour- 
age of  their  defenders  who  were  assembled  there,  and  to 
thank  them  for  their  fidelity.  Everywhere  the  royal  family 
was  received  with  enthusiasm,  everywhere  oaths  of  loyalty 
to  death  resounded  through  the  rooms.  The  king  then 
went,  accompanied  by  a  few  faithful  friends,  down  into 
the  park,  to  review  the  battalions  of  the  National  Guard 
who  were  stationed  there. 

When  Louis  appeared,  the  cry,  "Long  live  the  king!" 
began  to  lose  the  unanimity  which  had  characterized  it  in 
the  palace.  It  was  suppressed  and  overborne  by  a  hostile 
murmur,  and  the  farther  the  king  advanced,  the  louder 
grew  these  mutterings;  till  at  last,  from  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  throats,  the  thundering  cry  resounded,  "  Ab- 
dication or  death!  Long  live  Petion!  Eesignation  or 
death!" 

The  king  turned  hastily  around,  and,  with  pale  face  and 
forehead  covered  with  drops  of  cold  sweat,  he  returned  to 
the  palace. 

"  All  is  lost !"  cried  the  queen,  bitterly.  "  Nothing  more 
remains  for  us  than  to  die  worthily." 

But  soon  she  raised  herself  up  again,  and  new  courage 
animated  her  soul,  when  she  saw  that  new  defenders  were 
constantly  pressing  into  the  hall,  and  that  even  many 
grenadiers  of  the  National  Guard  mingled  in  the  ranks  of 
the  nobility. 

But  these  noblemen,  these  "  Chevaliers  of  the  Dagger," 
excited  mistrust,  and  a  major  of  the  National  Guard  de- 
manded their  removal  with  a  loud  voice. 

"No,"  cried  the  queen,  eagerly,  "these  noblemen  are 
our  best  friends.  Place  them  before  the  mouth  of  the  can- 
non, and  they  will  show  you  how  death  for  one's  king  is 
met.  Do  not  disturb  yourselves  about  these  brave  people," 
she  continued,  turning  to  some  grenadiers  who  were  ap- 
proaching her,  "your  interests  and  theirs  are  common. 
21 


316  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

Every  thing  that  is  dearest  to  you  and  them — wives,  chil- 
dren, property — depends  upon  your  courage  and  your 
common  bravery." 

The  grenadiers  extended  their  hands  to  the  chevaliers, 
and  mutual  oaths  were  exchanged  to  die  for  the  royal  fam- 
ily, to  save  the  throne  or  to  perish  with  it.  It  was  a  grand 
and  solemn  moment,  full  of  lofty  eloquence !  The  hearts 
of  these  noblemen  and  these  warriors  longed  impatiently 
for  death.  With  their  hands  laid  upon  their  weapons, 
they  awaited  its  coming. 

The  populace  rolled  up  in  great  masses  to  the  palace. 
Wild  shrieks  were  heard,  the  thunder  of  cannon,  the  harsh 
cries  of  women,  and  the  yells  of  men.  Within  the  palace 
they  listened  with  suspended  breath.  The  queen  straight- 
ened herself  up,  grasped  with  a  quick  movement  the  hands 
of  her  children,  drew  them  to  herself,  and,  with  head  bent 
forward  and  with  breathless  expectation,  gazed  at  the  door, 
like  a  lioness  awaiting  her  enemy,  and  making  herself  ready 
to  defend  her  young  with  her  own  life. 

The  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  the  attorney-general 
Roderer  burst  in. 

"Sire,"  cried  he,  with  impassioned  utterance,  "you 
must  save  yourself!  All  opposition  is  vain.  Only  the 
smallest  part  of  the  National  Guard  is  still  to  be  trusted, 
and  even  this  part  only  waits  the  first  pretext  to  fraternize 
with  the  populace.  The  cannoneers  have  already  with- 
drawn the  loading  from  the  cannon,  because  they  are  un- 
willing to  fire  upon  the  people'.  The  king  has  no  time  to 
lose.  Sire,  there  is  protection  for  you  only  in  the  Na- 
tional Assembly,  and  only  the  representatives  of  the  people 
can  now  protect  the  royal  family." 

The  queen  uttered  a  cry  of  anger  and  horror.  "  How!" 
she  cried.  "  What  do  you  say  V  We  seek  protection  with 
our  worst  enemies?  Never,  oh,  never!  Eather  will  I  be 
nailed  to  these  walls,  than  leave  the  palace  to  go  to  the 
National  Assembly!"  * 

And  turning  to  the  king,  who  stood  silent  and  undecided, 
she  spoke  to  him  with  flaming  words,  with  glowing  elo- 
quence, addressed  him  as  the  father  of  the  dauphin,  the 
successor  of  Henry  IV.  and  Louis  XIV.,  sought  to  ani- 

*  The  queen's  own  words.— See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,  p.  00. 


JUNE    20   AND    AUGUST    10,    1792.  317 

mate  his  ambition  and  touch  his  heart,  and  tried  for  the 
last  time  to  kindle  him  with  her  courage  and  her  decision. 

In  vain,  all  in  vain.  The  king  remained  silent  and  un- 
decided. A  cry,  one  single  cry  of  grief,  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  queen,  and  one  moment  her  head  sank  upon 
her  breast. 

"Hasten,  hasten,  sire!"  cried  Roderer,  "every  moment 
increases  the  peril.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps  the 
queen  and  the  children  will  be  lost  beyond  remedy!" 

These  words  awakened  the  king  from  his  reverie.  He 
looked  up  and  nodded  his  head.  "  We  can  do  nothing  else," 
he  said.  "  Let  us  go  at  once  to  the  National  Assembly." 

"Sir,"  cried  the  queen,  turning  to  Roderer,  "is  it  true 
that  we  are  deserted  by  all?" 

"  Madame, "  answered  the  attorney-general,  sadly,  "  all 
opposition  is  in  vain,  it  will  only  increase  the  danger. 
Would  you  suffer  yourself,  the  king,  your  children,  and 
friends,  to  be  killed?" 

"  God  forbid  it !  Would  that  I  alone  could  be  the 
offering!" 

"Another  minute,"  urged  Roderer,  " perhaps  another 
second,  and  it  is  impossible  to  guarantee  your  life,  and 
perhaps  that  of  your  husband  and  children." 

"My  children!"  cried  the  queen,  throwing  her  arms 
around  them,  and  drawing  them  to  her  breast.  "  No,  oh 
no,  I  will  not  give  them  over  to  the  knife!" 

One  sigh,  one  last  sob,  burst  from  her  lips,  and  then  she 
released  herself  from  the  children,  and  approached  the 
king  and  his  ministers. 

"This  is  the  last  sacrifice,"  she  said,  heavily,  "that  I 
can  offer.  I  submit  myself,  M.  Roderer,"  and  then  with 
louder  tones,  as  if  she  wanted  to  call  all  present  to  be  wit- 
nesses, she  continued,  "will  you  pledge  yourself  for  the 
person  of  the  king,  and  for  that  of  my  son?" 

"Madame,"  answered  Roderer,  solemnly,  "I  pledge  my- 
self for  this,  that  we  are  all  ready  to  die  at  your  side. 
That  is  all  that  I  can  promise." 

And  now  the  noblemen  and  the  grenadiers  pressed  up  to 
take  the  king  and  queen  in  their  escort. 

"For  God's  sake,"  cried  Roderer,  "no  demonstration, 
or  the  king  is  lost!" 


318  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"Kemain,  my  friends,"  said  the  king,  stolidly,  "await 
our  return  here." 

"  We  shall  soon  return,"  said  Marie  Antoinette;  and 
leading  her  two  children,  she  followed  the  king,  who 
walked  slowly  through  the  hall.  Princess  Lamballe  and 
Madame  Tourzel  brought  up  the  rear% 

It  was  done.  The  dying  monarchy  left  the  royal  palace 
to  put  itself  under  the  protection  of  the  revolution,  which 
was  soon  to  give  birth  to  the  republic. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  royal  family 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Tuileries — in  front  the  king, 
conducting  Princess  Elizabeth  on  his  arm,  behind  him  the 
queen  with  the  two  children. 

Before  leaving  the  palace,  the  king  received  tidings  that 
a  part  of  the  National  Guard  had  withdrawn,  in  order  to 
protect  their  families  and  their  property  from  an  attack  of 
the  populace,  and  that  another  part  had  declared  itself 
against  the  king  and  in  favor  of  the  revolution. 

Louis  made  his  way  through  the  seething  crowd  that 
scarcely  opened  to  allow  a  free  passage  for  the  royal  family, 
and  overwhelmed  them  with  curses,  insults,  and  abuse. 
Some  members  of  the  National  Assembly  went  in  advance, 
and  could  themselves  scarcely  control  the  raging  waves  of 
popular  fury. 

On  the  Terrace  des  Feuillants  the  people  shouted, 
"  Down  with  the  tyrants!  To  death,  to  death  with  them !" 

The  dauphin  cried  aloud  with  fright,  for  the  bloody 
hands  of  two  yelling  women  were  extended  after  him.  A 
grenadier  sprang  forward,  seized  the  boy  with  his  strong 
arm,  and  raised  him  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  My  son,  give  me  back  my  son!"  cried  the  queen,  wildly. 

The  grenadier  bowed  to  her.  "  Do  not  be  afraid,  do  you 
not  recognize  me?" 

Marie  Antoinette  looked  at  him,  and  the  hint  of  a  smile 
passed  over  her  face.  She  did  indeed  recognize  him  who, 
like  a  good  angel,  was  always  present  when  danger  and 
death  threatened  her.  It  was  Toulan,  the  faithful  one, 
by  her  side  in  the  uniform  of  a  National  Guardsman. 
"  Courage,  courage,  good  queen,  the  demons  are  loose,  but 
good  angels  are  near  thee  too ;  and  where  those  curse  and 
howl,  these  bring  blessing  and  reconciliation." 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST    10,    1792.  319 

"Down  with  the  tyrants!"  roared  the  savage  women. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  my  prince,"  said  the  grenadier,  to 
the  dauphin  whom  he  carried  upon  his  shoulder,  in  order 
to  protect  him  from  the  thronging  of  the  crowd.  "  No- 
body will  hurt  you." 

"Not  me,  but  my  dear  papa,"  sobbed  the  child,  while 
the  tears  rolled  over  his  pale  cheeks. 

The  poor  child  trembled  and  was  afraid,  and  how  could 
he  help  it?  Even  the  king  was  terrified  for  a  moment, 
and  felt  as  if  the  tears  were  coming  into  his  eyes.  The 
queen  too  wept,  dried  her  tears,  and  then  wept  again. 
The  sad  march  consumed  more  than  an  hour,  in  order  to 
traverse  the  bit  of  way  to  the  Manege,  where  the  National 
Assembly  met.  Before  the  doors  of  this  building  the  cries 
were  doubled;  the  attorney-general  harangued  the  mob, 
and  sought  to  quiet  it,  and  pushed  the  royal  family  into 
the  narrow  corridor,  in  which,  hemmed  in  by  abusive 
crowds,  they  made  their  way  forward  slowly.  At  last  the 
hall  doors  opened,  and  as  Marie  Antoinette  passed  in  be- 
hind the  king,  Toulan  gave  the  little  dauphin  to  her,  who 
flung  both  his  arms  around  the  neck  of  his  mother. 

A  death-like  silence  reigned  in  the  hall.  The  deputies 
looked  with  dark  faces  at  the  new-comers.  No  one  rose  to 
salute  the  king,  no  word  of  welcome  was  spoken. 

The  king  took  his  place  by  the  side  of  the  president,  the 
queen  and  her  ladies  took  the  chairs  of  the  ministers. 
Then  came  an  angry  cry  from  the  tribune :  "  The  dau- 
phin must  sit  with  the  king,  he  belongs  to  the  nation. 
The  Austrian  has  no  claim  to  the  confidence  of  the  people." 

An  officer  came  down  to  take  the  child  away,  but  Louis 
Charles  clung  to  his  mother,  fear  was  expressed  on  his  feat- 
ures, tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  won  a  word  of  sympathy, 
so  that  the  officer  did  not  venture  to  remove  the  prince 
forcibly. 

A  deep  silence  sat  in  again,  till  the  king  raised  his  voice. 
"  I  have  come  hither,"  he  said,  "  to  prevent  a  great  crime, 
and  because  I  believe  that  I  am  safest  surrounded  by  the 
representatives  of  the  nation." 

"Sire,"  replied  President  Vergniaud,  "you  can  reckon 
upon  the  devotion  of  the  National  Assembly.  It  knows  its 
duties;  its  members  have  sworn  to  live  and  to  die  in  de- 


320  MARIE    ANTOINETfE   AND    HER   SON. 

fence  of  the  rights  of  the  people  and  of  the  constitutional 
authorities." 

Voices  were  heard  at  this  point  from  all  sides  of  the  hall, 
declaring  that  the  constitution  forbids  the  Assembly  hold- 
ing its  deliberations  in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  the 
queen. 

They  then  took  the  royal  family  into  the  little  low  box 
scarcely  ten  feet  long,  in  which  the  reporters  of  the  "  Log- 
ograph"  used  to  write  their  accounts  of  the  doings  of  the 
Assembly.  Into  this  narrow  space  were  a  king,  a  queen, 
with  her  sister  and  her  children,  their  ministers  and  faith- 
ful servants,  crowded,  to  listen  to  the  discussions  concern- 
ing the  deposition  of  the  king. 

From  without  there  came  into  the  hall  the  wild  cry  of 
the  populace  that  the  Swiss  guards  had  been  killed,  and 
shouts  accompanied  the  heads  as  they  were  carried  about 
on  the  points  of  pikes.  The  crack  of  muskets  was  heard, 
and  the  roar  of  cannon.  The  last  faithful  regiments  were 
contending  against  the  army  of  the  revolutionists,  while 
within  the  hall  the  election  by  the  French  people  of  a  Gen- 
eral Convention  was  discussed. 

This  scene  lasted  the  whole  day;  the  whole  day  the 
queen  sat  in  the  glowing  heat,  her  son  asleep  in  her  lap, 
motionless,  and  like  a  marble  statue.  She  appeared  to  be 
alive  only  when  once  in  a  while  a  sigh  or  a  faint  moan  es- 
caped her.  A  glass  of  water  mixed  with  currant-juice  was 
the  only  nourishment  she  took  through  the  day. 

At  about  five  in  the  afternoon,  while  the  Assembly  was 
still  deliberating  about  the  disposal  of  the  king,  Louis 
turned  composedly  around  to  the  valet  who  was  standing 
back  of  him. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  he  said ;  "  bring  me  something  to  eat!" 

Hue  hastened  to  bring,  from  a  restaurant  near  by,  a 
piece  of  roast  chicken,  some  fruit  and  stewed  plums;  a 
small  table  was  procured,  and  carried  into  the  reporters' 
box  of  the  "  Logograph." 

The  countenance  of  the  king  lightened  up  a  little,  as  he 
sat  down  at  the  table  and  ate  his  dinner  with  a  good  appe- 
tite. He  did  not  hear  the  suppressed  sobs  that  issued  from 
a  dark  corner  of  the  box.  To  this  corner  the  unhappy 
woman  had  withdrawn,  who  yesterday  was  Queen  of 


JUNE    20   AND    AUGUST    10,    1792.  321 

France,  and  whose  pale  cheeks  reddened  with  shame  at 
this  hour  to  see  the  king  eating  with  his  old  relish! 

The  tears  started  afresh  from  her  eyes,  and,  in  order  to 
dry  them,  she  asked  for  a  handkerchief,  for  her  own  was 
already  wet  with  her  tears,  and  with  the  sweat  which  she 
had  wiped  from  the  forehead  of  her  sleeping  boy.  But  no 
one  of  her  friends  could  reach  her  a  handkerchief  that  was 
not  red  with  the  blood  of  those  who  had  been  wounded  in 
the  defence  of  the  queen ! 

It  was  only  at  two  o'clock  in  the  night  that  the  living 
martyrdom  of  this  session  ended,  and  the  royal  family  were 
conducted  to  the  cells  of  the  former  Convent  des  Feuillants, 
which  was  above  the  rooms  of  the  Assembly,  and  which 
had  hastily  been  put  in  readiness  for  the  night  quarters  of 
the  royal  family.  Hither  armed  men,  using  their  gun- 
barrels  as  candlesticks  for  the  tapers  which  they  carried, 
marched,  conducting  a  king  and  a  queen  to  their  impro- 
vised sleeping-rooms.  A  dense  crowd  of  people,  bearing 
weapons,  surrounded  them,  and  often  closed  the  way,  so 
that  it  needed  the  energetic  command  of  the  officer  in 
charge  to  make  a  free  passage  for  them.  The  populace 
drew  back,  but  bellowed  and  sang  into  the  ears  of  the 
queen  as  she  passed  by: 

"  Madame  Veto  avait  promis 
D'egorger  tout  Paris." 

These  horrible  faces,  these  threatening,  abusive  voices, 
frightened  the  dauphin,  who  clung  tremblingly  to  his 
mother.  Marie  Antoinette  stooped  down  to  him  and  whis- 
pered a  few  words  in  his  ear.  At  once  the  countenance  of 
the  boy  brightened,  and  he  sprang  quickly  and  joyfully  up 
the  staircase ;  but  at  the  top  he  stood  still,  and  waited  for 
his  sister,  who  was  so  heavy  with  sleep  that  she  had  to  be 
led  slowly  up.  "  Listen,  Theresa,"  said  the  prince,  joy- 
ously, "mamma  has  promised  me  that  I  shall  sleep  in  her 
room  with  her,  because  I  was  so  good  before  the  bad  peo- 
ple." *  And  he  jumped  about  delightedly  into  the  rooms 
which  had  been  opened,  and  in  which  a  supper  had  been 
even  prepared.  But  suddenly,  his  countenance  darkened, 
and  his  eyes  wandered  around  with  an  anxious  look. 

"Where   is  Mou filet?"  he  asked.     "He  came  with  me, 

*Goncourt.—  "Histoirede  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  834. 


322  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

and  he  was  with  me  when  we  left  the  box.  Moufflet, 
Moufflet,  where  are  you,  Moufflet?"  and  asking  this  ques- 
tion loudly,  the  dauphin  hurried  through  the  four  rooms, 
everywhere  seeking  after  the  little  dog,  the  inheritance 
from  his  brother,  the  former  Dauphin  of  France. 

But  Moufflet  did  not  come,  and  all  search  was  in  vain ; 
no  Moufflet  was  to  be  found.  He  had  probably  been  lost 
in  the  crowd,  or  been  trodden  under  foot. 

When  at  last  silence  and  peace  came,  and  the  royal  fam- 
ily were  resting  on  their  hard  beds,  sighs  and  suppressed 
sobs  were  heard  from  where  the  dauphin  lay.  It  was  the 
little  fellow  weeping  for  his  lost  dog.  The  heir  of  the 
kings  of  France  had  to-day  lost  his  last  possession — his  lit- 
tle, faithful  dog. 

Marie  Antoinette  stooped  down  and  kissed  his  wet  eyes. 
"  Do  not  cry,  my  boy ;  Moufflet  will  come  back  again  to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow!  certainly,  mamma?" 

"  Certainly." 

The  boy  dried  his  tears,  and  went  to  sleep  with  a  smile 
upon  his  lips. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  sleep ;  sitting  erect  in  her 
bed,  she  listened  to  the  cries  and  fiendish  shoutings  which 
came  up  from  the  terrace  of  the  Feuillants,  as  the  people 
heaped  their  abuses  upon  her,  and  demanded  her  head. 

On  the  next  day  new  sufferings!  The  royal  family  had 
to  go  again  into  the  little  box  which  they  had  occupied  the 
day  before ;  they  had  to  listen  to  the  deliberations  of  the 
National  Assembly  about  the  future  residence  of  the  royal 
family,  which  had  made  itself  unworthy  to  inhabit  the 
Tuileries,  while  even  the  Luxemburg  palace  was  no  suit- 
able residence  for  Monsieur  and  Madame  Veto. 

The  queen  had  in  the  mean  time  regained  her  self- 
possession  and  calmness,  she  could  even  summon  a  smile  to 
her  lips  with  which  to  greet  her  children  and  the  faithful 
friends  who  thronged  around  her  in  order  to  be  near  her 
in  these  painful  hours.  She  was  pleased  with  the  atten- 
tions of  the  wife  of  the  English  ambassador,  Lady  Suther- 
land, who  sent  linen  and  clothes  of  her  own  son  for  the 
dauphin.  The  queen  also  received  from  Madame  Tourzel 
her  watch  with  many  thanks,  since  she  had  been  robbed  of 


JUNE   20   AND   AUGUST   10,    1792.  323 

her  own  and  her  purse  on  the  way  to  the  Convent  des 
Feuillants. 

On  receiving  news  of  this  theft,  the  five  gentlemen  pres- 
ent hastened  to  lay  all  the  gold  and  notes  that  they  carried 
about  them  on  the  table  before  they  withdrew.  But  Marie 
Antoinette  had  noticed  this.  "  Gentlemen,"  she  said,  with 
thanks  and  deep  feeling,  "gentlemen,  keep  your  money; 
you  will  want  it  more  than  we,  for  you  will,  I  trust,  live 
longer. "  * 

Death  had  no  longer  any  terrors  for  the  queen,  for  she 
had  too  often  looked  him  in  the  eye  of  late  to  be  afraid. 
She  had  with  joy  often  seen  him  take  away  her  faithful 
servants  and  friends.  Death  would  have  been  lighter  to 
bear  than  the  railings  and  abuse  which  she  had  to  experi- 
ence upon  her  walks  from  the  Logograph's  reporters'  seat 
to  the  rooms  in  the  Convent  des  Feuillants.  On  one  of 
these  walks  she  saw  in  the  garden  some  respectably  dressed 
people  standing  and  looking  without  hurling  insults  at 
her. — Full  of  gratitude,  the  queen  smiled  and  bowed  to 
them.  On  this,  one  of  the  men  shouted:  "You  needn't 
take  the  trouble  to  shake  your  head  so  gracefully,  for  you 
won't  have  it  much  longer!" 

"  I  would  the  man  were  right!"  said  Marie  Antoinette 
softly,  going  on  to  the  hall  of  the  Assembly  to  hear  the 
representatives  of  the  nation  discuss  the  question  whether 
the  Swiss  guards,  who  had  undertaken  to  defend  the  royal 
family  with  weapons  in  their  hands,  should  not  be  con- 
demned to  death  as  traitors  to  the  French  nation. 

At  length,  after  five  days  of  continued  sufferings,  the 
Assembly  became  weary  of  insulting  and  humiliating  longer 
those  who  had  been  robbed  of  their  power  and  dignity; 
and  it  was  announced  to  the  royal  family  that  they  would 
hereafter  reside  in  the  Temple,  and  be  perpetual  prisoners 
of  the  nation. 

On  the  morning  of  the  18th  of  August  two  great  car- 
riages, each  drawn  by  only  two  horses,  stood  in  the  court 
des  Feuillants  ready  to  carry  the  royal  family  to  the  Tem- 
ple. In  the  first  of  these  sat  the  king,  the  queen,  their 
two  children,  Madame  Elizabeth,  Princess  Lamballe,  Ma- 
dame Tourzel  and  her  daughter;  and  besides  these,  Petion 

*  The  queen's  own  words.— See  "Beauehesne,"  vol.  i.,  p.  206. 


324  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

the  mayor  of  Paris,  the  attorney-general,  and  a  municipal 
officer.  In  the  second  carriage  were  the  servants  of  the 
king  and  two  officials.  A  detachment  of  the  National 
Guards  escorted  the  carriages,  on  both  sides  of  which  dense 
masses  of  men  stood,  incessantly  pouring  out  their  abuse 
and  insults. 

In  the  Place  Vendome  the  procession  stopped,  and  with 
scornful  laughter  they  showed  the  king  the  scattered  frag- 
ments, upon  the  pavements,  of  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Louis  XIV.,  which  had  stood  there,  and  which  had  been 
thrown  from  its  pedestal  by  the  anger  of  the  people.  "  So 
shall  it  be  with  all  tyrants!"  shouted  and  roared  the  mob, 
raising  their  fists  threateningly. 

"How  bad  they  are!"  said  the  dauphin,  looking  with 
widely-opened  eyes  at  the  king,  between  whose  knees  he 
was  standing. 

"No,"  answered  Louis,  gently,  "  they  are  not  bad,  they 
are  only  misled." 

At  seven  in  the  evening  they  reached  the  gloomy  build- 
ing which  was  now  to  be  the  home  of  the  King  and  Queen 
of  France.  "Long  live  the  nation!"  roared  the  mob, 
which  filled  the  inner  court  as  Marie  Antoinette  and  her 
husband  dismounted  from  the  carriage.  "  Long  live  the 
nation! — down  with  the  tyrants!"  The  queen  paid  no 
attention  to  the  cries;  she  looked  down  at  her  black  shoe, 
which  was  torn,  and  out  of  whose  tip  her  white  silk  stock- 
ing peeped.  "See,"  she  said,  to  Princess  Lamballe,  who 
was  walking  by  her  side,  "  see  my  foot,  it  would  hardly  be 
believed  that  the  Queen  of  France  has  no  shoes." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

TO   THE    21ST   OF   JANUARY. 

"  WE  must  look  misfortune  directly  in  the  eye,  and  have 
courage  to  bear  it  worthily,"  said  Marie  Antoinette.  "  We 
are  prisoners,  and  shall  long  remain  so !  Let  us  seek  to 
have  a  kind  of  household  life  even  in  our  prison.  Let  us 
make  a  fixed  plan  how  to  spend  our  days." 

"You  are  right,  Marie,"  replied  Louis;  "let  us  arrange 


TO   THE    21ST   OF   JANUARY.  325 

how  to  spend  each  day.  As  I  am  no  longer  a  king,  I  will 
be  the  teacher  of  my  son,  and  try  to  educate  him  to  be  a 
good  king." 

"  Do  you  believe,  then,  husband,  that  there  are  to  be 
kings  after  this  in  France?"  asked  Marie  Antoinette,  with 
a  shrug. 

"Well,"  answered  Louis,  "we  will  at  least  seek  to  give 
him  such  an  education  that  he  shall  be  able  to  fill  worthily 
whatever  station  he  may  be  called  to.  I  will  be  his  teacher 
in  the  sciences." 

"  And  I  will  interest  him  and  our  daughter  in  music  and 
drawing,"  said  the  queen. 

"  And  you  will  allow  me  to  teach  my  niece  to  embroider 
an  altar-cover,"  said  Madame  Elizabeth. 

"And  in  the  evening,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  nodding 
playfully  to  Princess  Lamballe,  "  in  the  evening  we  will 
read  comedies,  that  the  children  may  learn  of  our  Lam- 
balle the  art  of  declamation.  We  will  seek  to  forget  the 
past,  and  turn  our  thoughts  only  to  the  present,  whatever 
it  may  be.  You  see  that  these  four  days  that  we  have 
spent  here  in  the  Temple  have  been  good  schoolmasters  for 
me,  and  have  made  me  patient,  and — but  what  is  that?" 
exclaimed  the  queen ;  "  did  you  not  hear  steps  before  the 
door?  It  must  be  something  unusual,  for  it  is  not  yet 
so  late  as  the  officials  are  accustomed  to  come.  Where  are 
the  children?" 

And,  in  the  anxiety  of  her  motherly  love,  the  queen  hast- 
ened up  the  little  staircase  which  led  to  the  second  story 
of  the  Temple,  where  was  the  chamber  of  the  dauphin,  to- 
gether with  the  general  sitting-room. 

Louis  Charles  sprang  forward  to  meet  his  mother,  and 
asked  her  whether  she  had  come  to  fulfil  her  promise,  and 
go  out  with  him  into  the  garden.  The  queen,  instead  of 
answering,  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  and  beckoned  to 
Theresa  to  come  to  her  side.  "  Oh !  my  children,  my  dear 
children,  I  only  wanted  to  see  you;  I " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  king,  followed  by  his  sister, 
Princess  Lamballe,  and  Madame  Tourzel,  entered. 

"  What  is  it?"  cried  Marie  Antoinette.  "  Some  new 
misfortune,  is  it  not?" 

She  was  silent,  for  she  now  became  aware  of  the  pres- 


326  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

ence  of  both  of  the  municipal  officials,  who  had  come  in 
behind  the  ladies,  and  in  whose  presence  she  would  not 
complain.  Manuel,  who,  since  the  10th  of  August,  had 
been  attorney-general — Manuel,  the  enemy  of  the  queen, 
the  chief  supervisor  of  the  prisoners  in  the  Temple,  was 
there — and  Marie  Antoinette  would  not  grant  him  the 
triumph  of  seeing  her  weakness. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  us,  sir,"  said  the  queen, 
with  a  voice  which  she  compelled  to  be  calm. 

Yes,  Manuel  had  something  to  say  to  her.  He  had  to 
lay  before  her  and  the  king  a  decree  of  the  National  As- 
sembly, which  ordered  old  parties  who  had  accompanied 
"  Louis  Capet  and  his  wife"  to  the  Temple,  either  under 
the  name  of  friends  or  servants,  to  leave  the  place  at  once. 

The  queen  had  not  a  word  of  complaint,  but  her  pride 
was  vanquished;  she  suffered  Manuel  to  see  her  tears.  She 
extended  her  arms,  and  called  the  faithful  Lamballe  to  her, 
mingled  her  tears  with  those  of  the  princess,  and  then 
gave  a  parting  kiss  to  Madame  de  Tourzel  and  her 
daughter. 

The  evening  of  that  day  was  a  silent  and  solitary  one  in 
the  rooms  of  the  Temple.  Their  last  servants  had  been 
taken  away  from  the  royal  prisoners,  and  only  Clery,  the 
valet  of  the  king,  had  been  suffered  to  remain,  to  wait 
upon  his  master.  The  next  morning,  however,  Manuel 
came  to  inform  the  queen  that  she  would  be  allowed  to 
have  two  other  women  to  wait  upon  her,  and  gave  her  a 
list  of  names  from  which  she  might  choose.  But  Marie 
Antoinette,  with  proud  composure,  refused  to  accept  this 
offer.  "We  have  been  deprived  of  those  who  remained 
faithful  to  us  out  of  love,  and  devoted  their  services  to  us 
as  a  free  gift,  and  we  will  not  supply  their  places  by  ser- 
vants who  are  paid  by  our  enemies." 

"Then  you  will  have  to  wait  upon  yourselves,"  cried 
Mannel,  Avith  a  harsh  voice. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  queen,  gently,  "we  will  wait  upon 
ourselves,  and  take  pleasure  in  it." 

And  they  did  wait  upon  themselves;  they  took  the 
tenderest  care  one  of  another,  and  performed  all  these 
offices  with  constant  readiness.  The  king  had,  happily, 
been  allowed  to  retain  his  valet,  who  dressed  him,  who 


TO   THE   21ST    OF   JANUARY.  327 

knew  all  his  quiet,  moderate  ways,  and  who  arranged 
every  thing  for  the  king  in  the  little  study  at  the  Temple, 
as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  in  the  grand  cabinet  at 
Versailles.  The  ladies  waited  upon  themselves,  and  Marie 
Antoinette  undertook  the  task  of  dressing  and  undressing 
the  dauphin. 

The  little  fellow  was  the  sunbeam  which  now  and  then 
would  light  up  even  the  sombre  apartments  of  the  Temple. 
With  the  happy  carelessness  of  infancy,  he  had  forgotten 
the  past,  and  did  not  think  of  the  future;  he  lived  only 
in  the  present,  sought  to  be  happy,  and  found  his  happi- 
ness when  he  succeeded  in  calling  a  smile  to  the  pale, 
proud  lips  of  the  queen,  or  in  winning  a  word  of  praise 
from  the  king  for  his  industry  and  his  attention. 

And  thus  the  days  went  by  with  the  royal  family — monot- 
onous, sad,  and  dreary.  No  greeting  of  love,  no  ray  of 
hope  came  in  from  the  outer  world,  to  lighten  up  the  thick 
walls  of  the  old  building.  No  one  brought  the  prisoners 
news  of  what  was  transpiring  without.  They  were  too 
well  watched  for  any  of  their  friends  to  be  able  to  com- 
municate with  them.  This  was  the  greatest  trial  for  the 
royal  captives.  Not  a  moment,  by  day  or  by  night,  when 
the  eyes  of  the  sentries  were  not  directed  toward  them,  and 
their  motions  observed !  The  doors  to  the  anterooms  were 
constantly  open,  and  in  them  always  there  were  officials, 
with  searching  looks  and  with  severe  faces,  watching  the 
prisoners  in  the  inner  rooms.  Even  during  the  night  this 
trial  did  not  cease,  and  the  Queen  of  France  had  to  undergo 
the  indignity  of  having  the  door  of  her  sleeping-room  con- 
stantly open,  while  the  officials,  who  spent  the  night  in 
their  arm-chairs  in  the  anteroom,  drank,  played,  and 
smoked,  always  keeping  an  eye  on  her  bed,  in  order  to  be 
sure  of  her  presence. 

Even  when  she  undressed  herself,  the  doors  of  the 
queen's  apartment  were  not  closed;  a  mere  small  screen 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  this  was  removed  as  soon  as 
the  queen  had  disrobed  and  lain  down. 

This  daily  renewed  pain  and  humiliation — this  being 
watched  every  minute — was  the  heaviest  burden  that  the 
prisoners  of  the  Temple  had  to  bear,  and  the  proud  heart 
of  Marie  Antoinette  rose  in  exasperation  every  day  against 


328  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

these  restraints.  She  endeavored  to  be  patient  and  to 
choke  the  grief  that  rose  within  her,  and  yet  she  must 
sometimes  give  expression  to  it  in  tears  and  threatening 
words,  which  now  fell  like  cold  thunderbolts  from  the  lips 
of  the  queen,  and  no  longer  kindled  any  thing,  no  longer 
dashed  any  thing  in  pieces. 

Thus  August  passed  and  September  began,  sad,  gloomy, 
and  hopeless.  On  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  September, 
Manuel  came  to  the  royal  prisoners,  to  tell  them  that  Paris 
was  in  great  excitement,  and  that  they  were  not  to  go  into 
the  garden  that  day  as  usual  about  noon,  but  were  to  re- 
main in  their  rooms. 

"  How  is  it  with  my  friend,  Princess  Lamballe?"  asked 
Marie  Antoinette. 

Manuel  was  perplexed ;  he  even  blushed  and  cast  down 
his  eyes,  as  he  answered  that  that  morning  the  princess  had 
been  taken  to  the  prison  La  Force.  Then,  in  order  to 
divert  conversation  from  this  channel,  Manuel  told  the 
prisoners  about  the  tidings  which  had  recently  reached 
Paris,  and  had  thrown  the  city  into  such  excitement  and 
rage. 

The  neighboring  powers  had  made  an  alliance  against 
France.  The  King  of  Prussia  was  advancing  with  a 
powerful  army,  and  had  already  confronted  the  French 
force  before  Chalons,  while  the  Emperor  of  Germany  was 
marching  against  Alsace.  Marie  Antoinette  forgot  the 
confusion  and  perplexity  which  Manuel  had  exhibited,  in 
the  importance  of  this  news.  She  hoped  again ;  she  found 
in  her  elastic  spirit  support  in  these  tidings,  and  began  to 
think  of  the  possibility  of  escape.  It  did  not  trouble  her 
that  beneath  her  windows  she  heard  a  furious  cry,  as  the 
crowd  surged  up  to  the  prison  walls:  "The  head  of  the 
Austrian!  Give  us  the  head  of  the  Austrian!"  She  had 
so  often  heard  that — it  had  been  so  long  the  daily  refrain 
to  the  sorrowful  song  of  riot  which  filled  Paris — that  it  had 
lost  all  meaning  for  Marie  Antoinette. 

Nor  did  it  disturb  her  at  all  that  she  heard  the  loud 
beatings  of  drums  approaching  like  muffled  thunder,  that 
trumpets  were  blown,  that  musketry  rattled,  and  loud  war 
cries  resounded  in  the  distant  streets. 

Marie   Antoinette   paid   no   heed   to   this.     She    heard 


TO   THE   21ST   OF   JANUARY.  329 

constantly  ringing  before  her  ear  Manuel's*  words:  "The 
neighboring  nations  have  allied  against  France.  The  King 
of  Prussia  is  before  Chalons.  The  Emperor  of  Germany  is 
advancing  upon  Strasburg."  "  0  God  of  Heaven,  be  mer- 
ciful to  us!  Grant  to  our  friends  victory  over  our  enemies. 
Release  us  from  uhese  sufferings  and  pains,  that  our  chil- 
dren may  at  least  find  the  happiness  which  for  us  is  buried 
forever  in  the  past. " 

And  yet  Marie  Antoinette  could  speak  to  no  one  of  her 
hopes  and  fears.  She  must  breathe  her  prayer  in  her  own 
heart  alone,  for  the  municipal  officials  were  there,  and  the 
two  servants  who  had  been  forced  upon  the  prisoners,  Ti- 
son  and  his  wife,  the  paid  servants  of  their  enemies. 

Only  the  brave  look  and  the  clearer  brow  told  the  king 
of  the  hopes  and  wishes  of  his  wife,  but  he  responded  to 
them  with  a  faint  shrug  and  a  sad  smile. 

All  at  once,  after  the  royal  family  had  sat  down  to  take 
their  dinner  at  the  round  table — all  at  once  there  was  a 
stir  in  the  building  which  was  before  so  still.  Terrible 
cries  were  heard,  and  steps  advancing  up  the  staircase. 
The  two  officials,  who  were  sitting  in  the  open  anteroom, 
stood  and  listened  at  the  door.  This  was  suddenly  opened, 
and  a  third  official  entered,  pale,  trembling  with  rage,  and 
raising  his  clinched  fists  tremblingly  against  the  king. 

"The  enemy  is  in  Verdun,"  cried  he.  "We  shall  all  be 
undone,  but  you  shall  be  the  first  to  suffer!" 

The  king  looked  quietly  at  him ;  but  the  dauphin,  terri- 
fied at  the  looks  of  the  angry  man  and  his  loud  voice,  burst 
into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping  and  sobbing,  and  Marie  Antoi- 
nette and  the  little  Theresa  strove  in  vain  to  quiet  the  lit- 
tle fellow  by  gentle  words. 

A  fourth  official  now  entered,  and  whispered  secretly  to 
his  colleagues. 

"  Is  my  family  no  longer  in  safety  here?"  asked  the  king. 

The  official  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  report  has 
gone  abroad  that  the  royal  family  is  no  longer  in  the  Tem- 
ple. This  has  excited  the  people,  and  they  desire  that  you 
all  show  yourselves  at  the  windows,  but  we  will  not  permit 
it;  you  shall  not  show  yourselves.  The  public  must  have 
more  confidence  in  its  servants." 

"Yes,"  cried   the  other  official,  still  raising  his  fists — 


330  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"yes,  that  it  must;  but  if  the  enemy  come,  the  royal 
family  shall  die!" 

And  when  at  these  words  the  dauphin  began  to  cry 
aloud  again,  he  continued :  "  I  pity  the  poor  little  fellow, 
but  die  he  must!" 

Meanwhile  the  cries  outside  were  still  louder,  and  abusive 
epithets  were  distinctly  heard  directed  at  the  queen.  A 
fifth  official  then  came  in,  followed  by  some  soldiers,  in 
order  to  assure  themselves,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  that 
the  Capet  family  was  still  in  the  tower.  This  official  de- 
manded, in  an  angry  voice,  that  they  should  go  to  the  win- 
dow and  show  themselves  to  the  people. 

"  No,  110,  they  shall  not  do  it,"  cried  the  other  function- 
aries. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  the  king.     "  Come,  Marie." 

He  extended  his  hand  to  her,  and  advanced  with  her  to 
the  window. 

"No,  don't  do  it!"  cried  the  official,  rushing  to  the 
window. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  the  king,  in  astonishment. 

"Well,"  cried  the  man,  with  threatening  fist,  "the  peo- 
ple want  to  show  you  the  head  of  Lamballe,  that  you  may 
see  how  the  nation  takes  vengeance  on  its  tyrants." 

At  that  same  instant  there  arose  behind  the  window-pane 
a  pale  head  encircled  with  long,  fair  hair,  the  livid  fore- 
head sprinkled  with  blood,  the  eyes  lustreless  and  fixed — 
the  head  of  Princess  Lamballe,  which  the  people  had  dressed 
by  a  friseur,  to  hoist  it  upon  a  pike  and  show  it  to  the 
queen. 

The  queen  had  seen  it;  staggering  she  fell  back  upon  a 
chair ;  she  gazed  fixedly  at  the  window,  even  after  the  fear- 
ful phantom  had  disappeared.  Her  lips  were  open,  as  if 
for  a  cry  which  had  been  silenced  by  horror.  She  did  not 
weep,  she  did  not  complain,  and  even  the  caresses  of  the 
children,  the  gentle  address  of  Princess  Elizabeth,  and  the 
comforting  words  of  the  king  could  not  rouse  her  out  of 
this  stupefying  of  her  whole  nature. 

Princess  Lamballe  had  been  murdered,  and  deep  in  her 
soul  the  queen  saw  that  this  was  only  the  prelude  to  the 
fearful  tragedy,  in  which  her  family  would  soon  be  im- 
plicated. 


TO   THE   21ST   OF   JANUARY.  331 

Poor  Princess  Lamballe!  She  had  been  killed  because 
she  had  refused  to  repeat  the  imprecations  against  the 
queen,  which  they  tried  to  extort  from  her  lips:  "Swear 
that  you  love  liberty  and  equality ;  swear  that  you  hate  the 
king,  the  queen,  and  every  thing  pertaining  to  royalty." 

"I  will  swear  to  the  first,"  was  the  princess's  answer, 
"  but  to  the  last  I  cannot  swear,  for  it  does  not  lie  in  my 
heart." 

This  was  the  offence  of  the  princess,  that  hate  did  not 
lie  in  her  heart — the  offence  of  so  many  others  who  were 
killed  on  that  3d  of  September,  that  dreadful  day  on  which 
the  hordes  of  Marseilles  opened  the  prisons,  in  order  to 
drag  the  prisoners  before  the  tribunals,  or  to  execute  them 
without  further  sentence. 

The  days  passed  by,  and  they  had  to  be  borne.  Marie 
Antoinette  had  regained  her  composure  and  her  proud 
calmness.  She  had  to  overcome  even  this  great  grief,  and 
the  heart  of  the  queen  had  not  yet  been  broken.  She  still 
loved,  she  still  hoped.  She  owed  it  to  her  husband  and 
children  not  to  despair,  and  better  days  might  come  even 
yet.  "We  must  keep  up  courage,"  she  said,  "to  live  till 
the  dawn  of  this  better  day." 

And  it  required  spirit  to  bear  the  daily  torture  of  this 
life !  Always  exposed  to  scorn  and  abuse !  Always  watched 
by  the  eyes  of  mocking,  reviling  men!  Always  scrutinized 
by  Madame  Tison,  her  servant,  who  followed  every  one  of 
her  motions  as  a  cat  watches  its  prey,  and  among  all  these 
sentinels  the  most  obnoxious  of  all  was  the  cobbler  Simon. 

Commissioned  by  the  authorities  to  supervise  the  work- 
men and  masons  who  were  engaged  in  restoring  the  par- 
tially ruined  ancient  portion  of  the  Temple,  Simon  had 
made  himself  at  home  within  the  building,  to  discharge 
his  duties  more  comfortably.  It  was  his  pleasure  to  watch 
this  humiliated  royal  family,  to  see  them  fall  day  by  day, 
and  hear  the  curses  that  accompanied  them  at  every  step. 
He  never  appeared  in  their  presence  without  insulting 
them,  and  encouraging  with  loud  laughter  those  wKo  imi- 
tated him  in  this. 

Some  of  the  officials  in  charge  never  spoke  excepting 
with  dreadful  abuse  of  the  king,  the  queen,  and  the 
children. 

22 


332  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

One  of  them  cried  to  his  comrade  iu  presence  of  Marie 
Antoinette :  "  If  the  hangman  does  not  guillotine  this  ac- 
cursed family,  I  will  do  it!" 

When  the  royal  family  went  down  to  take  their  walk  in 
the  garden,  Santerre  used  to  come  up  with  a  troop  of 
soldiers.  The  sentries  whom  they  passed  shouldered  arms 
before  Santerre;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  passed  and  the  king 
came,  they  grounded  their  arms,  and  pretended  not  to  see 
him.  In  the  door  that  led  into  the  garden,  Eocher,  the 
turnkey,  used  to  stand,  and  take  his  pleasure  in  letting  the 
royal  family  wait  before  unlocking,  while  he  blew  great 
clouds  of  smoke  into  their  faces  from  his  long  tobacco-pipe. 
The  National  Guards  who  stood  in  the  neighborhood  used 
to  laugh  at  this,  and  hurl  all  sorts  of  low,  vile  words  at  the 
princesses.  Then,  while  the  royal  prisoners  were  taking 
their  walk,  the  cannoneers  used  to  collect  in  the  allees 
through  which  they  wandered,  and  dance  to  the  music  of 
revolutionary  songs  which  some  of  them  sang.  Sometimes 
the  gardeners  who  worked  there  hurried  up  to  join  them 
in  this  dance,  and  to  encircle  the  prisoners  in  their  wild 
evolutions.  One  of  these  people  displayed  his  sickle  to  the 
king  one  day,  and  swore  that  he  would  cut  off  the  head  of 
the  queen  with  it.  And  when,  after  their  sad  walk,  they 
had  returned  to  the  Temple,  they  were  received  by  the 
sentinels  and  the  turnkey  with  renewed  insults;  and,  as  if 
it  were  not  enough  to  fill  the  ear  with  this  abuse,  the  eye 
too  must  have  its  share.  The  vilest  of  expressions  were 
written  upon  the  walls  of  the  corridors  which  the  royal 
party  had  to  traverse.  You  might  read  there :  "  Madame 
Veto  will  soon  be  dancing  again.  Down  with  the  Austrian 
she- wolf !  The  wolf's  brood  must  be  strangled.  The  king 
must  be  hanged  with  his  own  ribbon!"  Another  time  they 
had  drawn  a  gallows,  on  which  a  figure  was  hanging,  with 
the  expression  written  beneath,  "  Louis  taking  an  air-bath !" 

And  so,  even  the  short  walks  of  the  prisoners  were  trans- 
formed into  suffering.  At  first  the  queen  thought  she 
could  not  bear  it,  and  the  promenades  were  given  up.  But 
the  pale  cheeks  of  her  daughter,  the  longing  looks  which 
the  dauphin  cast  from  the  closed  window  to  the  garden, 
warned  the  mother  to  do  what  the  queen  found  too  severe  a 
task.  She  underwent  the  pain  involved  in  this,  she  sub- 


TO   THE    21ST    OF   JANUARY.  333 

mitted  herself,  and  every  day  the  royal  pair  took  the  dear 
children  into  the  garden  again,  and  bore  this  unworthy 
treatment  without  complaint,  that  the  children  might  en- 
joy a  little  air  and  sunshine. 

One  day,  the  21st  of  September,  the  royal  family  had 
returned  from  their  walk  to  their  sitting-room.  The  king 
had  taken  a  book  and  was  reading;  the  queen  was  sitting 
near  him,  engaged  in  some  light  work;  while  the  dauphin, 
with  his  sister  Theresa,  and  his  aunt  Elizabeth,  were  in  the 
next  room,  and  were  busying  each  other  with  riddles.  In 
the  open  anteroom  the  two  officials  were  sitting,  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  prisoners  with  a  kind  of  cruel  pleasure. 

Suddenly  beneath  their  windows  were  heard  the  loud 
blast  of  trumpets  and  the  rattle  of  drums ;  then  followed  a 
deep  silence,  and  amid  this  stillness  the  following  procla- 
mation was  read  with  a  loud  voice : 

"  The  monarchy  is  abolished  in  France.  All  official  doc- 
uments will  be  dated  from  the  first  year  of  the  republic. 
The  national  seal  will  be  encircled  by  the  words,  'Eepublic 
of  France. '  The  national  coat-of-arms  will  be  a  woman 
sitting  upon  a  bundle  of  weapons,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
a  lance  tipped  with  a  liberty-cap." 

The  two  officials  had  fixed  their  eyes  upon  the  king  and 
queen,  from  whose  heads  the  crown  had  just  fallen.  They 
wanted  to  read,  with  their  crafty  and  malicious  eyes,  the 
impression  which  the  proclamation  had  made  upon  them. 
But  those  proud,  calm  features  disclosed  nothing.  Not 
for  a  moment  did  the  king  raise  his  eyes  from  the  book 
which  he  was  reading,  while  the  voice  without  uttered 
each  word  with  fearful  distinctness.  The  queen  quietly 
went  on  with  her  embroidery,  and  not  for  a  moment  did 
she  intermit  the  regular  motion  of  her  needle. 

Again  the  blast  of  trumpets  and  the  rattle  of  drums. 
The  funeral  of  the  royalty  was  ended,  and  the  king  was, 
after  this  time,  to  be  known  simply  as  Louis  Capet,  and 
the  queen  as  Marie  Antoinette.  Within  the  Temple  there 
was  no  longer  a  dauphin,  no  longer  a  Madame  Royale,  no 
longer  a  princess,  but  only  the  Capet  family ! 

The  republic  had  hurled  the  crowns  from  the  heads  of 
Louis  and  Marie  Antoinette;  and  when,  some  days  later, 
the  linen  which  had  been  long  begged  for,  had  been 


334  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

brought  from  the  Tuileries,  the  republic  commanded  the 
queen  to  obliterate  the  crown  which  marked  each  piece,  in 
addition  to  the  name. 

But  their  sufferings  are  by  no  means  ended  yet.  Still 
there  are  some  sources  of  comfort  left,  and  now  and  then  a 
peaceful  hour.  The  crowns  have  fallen,  but  hearts  still 
beat  side  by  side.  They  have  no  longer  a  kingdom,  but 
they  are  together,  they  can  speak  with  looks  one  to  an- 
other, they  can  seek  to  comfort  one  another  with  smiles, 
they  can  cheer  each  other  up  with  a  passing  grasp  of  the 
hand,  that  escapes  the  eye  of  the  sentries !  We  only  suffer 
half  what  we  bear  in  common  with  others,  and  every  thing 
seems  lighter,  when  there  is  a  second  one  to  help  lift  the 
load. 

Perhaps  the  enemies  of  the  king  and  queen  have  an  in- 
stinctive feeling  of  this,  and  their  hate  makes  them  sym- 
pathetic, in  order  to  teach  them  to  invent  new  tortures  and 
new  sufferings. 

Yes,  there  are  unknown  pangs  still  to  be  felt;  their  cup 
of  sorrows  was  not  yet  full !  The  parents  are  still  left  to 
each  other,  and  their  eyes  are  still  allowed  to  rest  upon 
their  children !  But  the  "  one  and  indivisible  republic" 
means  to  rend  even  these  bonds  which  bind  the  royal 
family  together,  and  to  part  those  who  have  sworn  that 
nothing  shall  separate  them  but  death !  The  republic — 
which  had  abolished  the  churches,  overthrown  the  altars, 
driven  the  priesthood  into  exile — the  republic  cannot  grant 
to  the  Capet  family  that  only  death  shall  separate  them, 
for  it  had  even  made  Death  its  servant,  and  must  accept 
daily  victims  from  him,  offered  on  the  Place  de  Liberte,  in 
the  centre  of  which  stood  the  guillotine,  the  only  altar 
tolerated  there. 

In  the  middle  of  October  the  republic  sent  its  emissaries 
to  the  Temple,  to  tear  the  king  from  the  arms  of  his  wife 
and  his  children.  In  spite  of  their  pleadings  and  cries,  he 
was  taken  to  another  part  of  the  Temple — to  the  great 
tower,  which  from  this  time  was  to  serve  as  his  lodgings. 
And  in  order  that  the  queen  might  be  spared  no  pang,  the 
dauphin  was  compelled  to  go  with  his  father  and  be  sep- 
arated from  his  mother. 

This  broke  the  pride,  the  royal  pride  of  Marie  Antoi- 


TO    THE    21ST    OF   JANUARY.  335 

nette.  She  wrung  her  hands,  she  wept,  she  cried,  she  im- 
plored with  such  moving,  melting  tones,  not  to  be  separated 
from  her  son  and  husband,  that  even  the  heart  of  Simon 
the  cobbler  was  touched. 

"  I  really  believe  that  these  cursed  women  make  me 
blubber!"  cried  he,  angry  with  the  tears  which  forced 
themselves  into  his  eyes.  And  he  made  no  objection  when 
the  other  officials  said  to  the  queen,  with  trembling  voices, 
that  they  would  allow  the  royal  family  to  come  together  at 
their  meals. 

One  last  comfort,  one  last  ray  of  sunshine !  There  were 
still  hours  in  these  dismal,  monotonous  days  of  November, 
when  they  could  have  some  happiness — hours  for  which 
they  longed,  and  for  whose  sake  they  bore  the  desolate  soli- 
tude of  the  remaining  time. 

At  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  the  Capet  family  were 
together;  words  were  interchanged,  hands  could  rest  in 
one  another,  and  they  could  delight  in  the  pleasant  chat- 
ter of  the  dauphin  when  the  king  told  about  the  lessons  he 
had  given  the  boy,  and  the  progress  he  was  making. 
They  sometimes  forgot,  at  those  meetings,  that  Death  was 
perhaps  crouching  outside  the  Temple,  waiting  to  receive 
his  victims;  and  they  even  uttered  little  words  of  pleas- 
antry, to  awaken  the  bright,  fresh  laugh  of  the  dauphin, 
the  only  music  that  ever  was  heard  in  those  dismal  rooms. 

But  December  took  this  last  consolation  from  the  queen. 
The  National  Assembly,  which  had  now  been  transformed 
into  the  Convention,  brought  the  charge  of  treason  against 
the  king.  He  was  accused  of  entering  into  a  secret  alliance 
with  the  enemies  of  France,  and  calling  the  monarchs  of 
Europe  to  come  to  his  assistance.  In  an  iron  safe  which 
had  been  set  into  the  wall  of  the  cabinet  in  the  Tuileries, 
papers  had  been  discovered  which  compromised  the  king, 
letters  from  the  refugee  princes,  from  the  Emperor  of  Ger- 
many, and  the  King  of  Prussia.  These  monarchs  were 
now  on  the  very  confines  of  France,  ready  to  enter  upon 
a  bloody  war,  and  that  was  the  fault  of  the  king!  He  was 
in  alliance  with  the  enemies  of  his  country !  He  was  the 
murderer  of  his  own  subjects!  On  his  head  the  blood 
should  return,  which  had  been  shed  by  him. 

This  was  the   charge  which  was   brought   against   the 


336  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

king.  Twenty  members  of  the  Convention  went  to  the 
Temple,  to  read  it  to  him,  and  to  hear  his  reply. 

He  stoutly  denied  having  entertained  such  relations  with 
foreign  princes;  he  declared,  with  a  solemn  oath,  that  he 
had  declined  all  overtures  from  such  quarters,  because  he 
had  seen  that,  in  order  to  free  an  imprisoned  king,  France 
itself  must  be  threatened. 

The  chiefs  of  the  revolution  meant  to  find  him  guilty. 
Louis  Capet  must  be  put  out  of  the  way,  in  order  that 
Robespierre  and  Marat,  Danton,  Petion,  and  their  friends, 
might  reach  unlimited  power. 

There  may  have  been  several  in  the  Convention  who 
shrank  from  this  last  consequence  of  their  doings,  but  they 
did  not  venture  to  raise  their  voices;  they  chimed  in  with 
the  terrorism  which  the  leaders  of  the  revolution  exercised 
upon  the  Convention.  They  knew  that  behind  these 
leaders  stood  the  savage  masses  of  the  streets,  armed  with 
hatred  against  monarchy  and  the  aristocracy,  and  ready  to 
tear  in  pieces  any  one  as  an  enemy  of  the  country  who  ven- 
tured to  join  the  number  of  those  who  were  under  the  ban 
and  the  sentence  of  the  popular  hate. 

Still  there  were  some  courageous,  faithful  servants  of  the 
king  who  ventured  to  take  his  part  even  there.  Louis  had 
now  been  summoned  to  the  bar  as  an  accused  person,  and 
the  Convention  had  transformed  itself  into  a  tribunal 
whose  function  was  to  pass  judgment  on  the  guilt  or  inno- 
cence of  the  king! 

In  order  to  satisfy  all  the  forms  of  the  law,  the  king 
should  have  had  an  advocate  allowed  him,  and  the  benefit 
of  legal  counsel.  The  Convention  demanded  that  those 
who  were  ready  to  undertake  this  task  should  send  in  their 
names.  It  was  a  form  deemed  safe  to  abide  by,  because  it 
was  believed  that  there  would  be  no  one  who  would  venture 
to  enter  upon  so  momentous  and  perilous  a  duty. 

But  there  were  such,  nevertheless.  There  were  still 
courageous  and  noble  men  who  pitied  the  forsaken  king, 
and  who  wanted  to  try  to  save  him;  not  willing  to  see  him 
atone  for  the  debts  of  his  predecessors,  and  bleed  for  the 
sins  of  his  fathers.  And  scarcely  had  the  consent  of  the 
Convention  been  announced,  that  Louis  Capet  should  have 
three  advocates  for  his  defence,  when  from  Paris  and  all 


TO   THE   21ST   OF  JANUARY.  337 

the  minor  cities  letters  came  in  from  men  who  declared 
themselves  ready  to  undertake  the  defence  of  the  king. 

Even  from  foreign  lands  there  came  letters  and  appeals 
in  behalf  of  the  deposed  monarch.  One  of  them,  written 
in  spirited  and  glowing  language,  conjured  France  not  to 
soil  its  noble  young  freedom  by  the  dreadful  murder  of  an 
innocent  man,  who  had  committed  no  other  offence  than 
that  he  was  the  son  of  his  fathers,  the  heir  of  their  crown 
and  their  remissness.  It  was  written  by  a  German  poet, 
Frederick  Schiller.* 

From  the  many  requests  to  serve  as  his  advocates,  Louis 
chose  only  two  to  defend  him.  The  first  of  these  was  his 
former  minister,  the  philosopher  Lamoignon  des  Malesher- 
bes,  then  the  advocate  Trouchet,  and  finally,  at  the  press- 
ing request  of  Malesherbes,  the  distinguished  young  advo- 
cate Deseges.  To  those  three  men  was  committed  the 
trust  of  defending  the  king  against  the  dreadful  charge  of 
treason  to  his  country,  to  be  substantiated  by  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  letters  and  documents.  , 

After  the  preliminary  investigations  were  closed,  the 
public  charge  was  made  in  the  Convention,  which  still  held 
its  sessions  in  the  Manege.  To  this  building,  situated 
near  the  Tuileries,  the  king,  accompanied  by  his  three  de- 
fenders and  two  municipal  defenders,  and  surrounded  by 
National  Guards,  was  conducted  from  the  Temple.  The 
people  danced  around  the  carriage  with  wild  shouts  of  joy 
and  curses  of  the  king.  Within  the  vehicle  sat  Louis, 
completely  calm  and  self-possessed. 

"This  man  must  be  filled  with  a  singular  fanaticism," 
said  Colombeau,  one  of  the  leading  officials,  in  the  report 
which  he  gave  to  the  Convention  of  the  ride.  "  It  is 
otherwise  inexplicable  how  Louis  could  be  so  calm,  since 
he  had  so  much  reason  to  fear.  After  we  had  all  entered 
the  carriage,  and  were  driving  through  the  streets,  Louis 
entered  upon  conversation,  which  soon  turned  upon  liter- 
ature, and  especially  upon  some  Latin  authors.  He  gave 
his  judgments  with  remarkable  correctness  and  insight, 
and  it  appeared  to  me  that  he  took  pleasure  in  showing  his 
learning.  One  of  us  said  that  he  did  not  enjoy  Seneca, 

*  Schiller's  defence  of  the  king  is  preserved  in  the  national  archives.— See 
Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,  p.  365. 


338  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

because  his  love  for  riches  stood  in  marked  contrast  with 
his  pretended  philosophy,  and  because  it  could  not  easily 
be  forgiven  him  that  before  the  senate  he  apologized  for 
the  crimes  of  Nero.  This  reflection  did  not  seem  to  affect 
Louis  in  the  least.  When  we- spoke  of  Livy,  Capet  said 
that  he  seemed  to  have  taken  satisfaction  in  composing 
great  speeches  which  were  never  uttered  to  any  other  audi- 
ence than  that  which  was  reached  from  his  study-table; 
'for,'  he  added,  'it  is  impossible  that  generals  really  deliv- 
ered such  long  speeches  in  front  of  their  armies. '  He  then 
compared  Livy  with  Tacitus,  and  thought  that  the  latter 
was  far  superior  to  the  former  in  point  of  style."*  The 
king  went  on  talking  about  Latin  authors  while  the  car- 
riage was  carrying  him  through  the  roaring  mob  to  the 
Convention,  which  Desege  addressed  in  his  defence  in 
these  courageous  words :  "  I  look  for  judges  among  you, 
but  see  only  accusers." 

The  king  was  completely  calm,  yet  he  knew  that  his  life 
was  threatened,  and  that  he  was  standing  before  a  tribunal 
of  death.  As  on  the  day  when  he  was  first  taken  to  the 
Convention,  he  requested  Malesherbes  to  forward  a  note  to 
the  priest  whose  attendance  he  desired,  and  who  he  be- 
lieved would  not  deny  his  presence  and  attentions.  His 
name  was  Edgewarth  de  Firmont.  The  time  was  not  dis- 
tant when  not  the  services  of  advocates  were  wanted  by  the 
king,  but  exclusively  those  of  the  priest. 

The  sentence  of  death  was  pronounced  on  January  26, 
1793.  Louis  received  it  calmly,  and  desired  merely  to  see 
his  family,  to  have  a  confessor  come  to  him,  and  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  his  death. 

During  these  dreadful  weeks  Marie  Antoinette  was  sep- 
arated from  her  husband,  alone  with  her  children,  who  no 
longer  were  able  to  smile,  but  who  sat  day  after  day  with 
fixed  eyes  and  silent  lips.  The  queen  knew  that  the  king 
had  been  accused,  had  made  a  private  reply  to  the  charges 
brought  against  him,  and  had  been  brought  before  the 
Convention.  But  not  a  word,  not  a  syllable  of  the  trial 
which  followed,  reached  her.  Madame  Tison,  the  female 
dragon  who  guarded  her,  watched  her  too  well  for  any 
tidings  to  reach  her. 

*  See  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,  p.  396. 


TO   THE    21ST    OF   JANUARY.  339 

At  last,  however,  the  word  was  brought  which  the  heart 
of  the  queen  had  so  long  anticipated  tremblingly,  for  which 
she  had  prepared  herself  during  the  long  nights  with  tears 
and  prayers,  and  which  now  filled  her  with  grief,  anger, 
and  despair.  The  king  was  condemned  to  death!  He 
wanted  only  to  see  his  family,  to  take  his  leave  of  them ! 

The  Convention  had  granted  this  privilege  to  him,  and 
had  even  gone  so  far  in  its  grace  as  to  permit  the  family  to 
be  without  the  presence  of  witnesses.  The  meeting  was 
appointed,  however,  in  the  little  dining-room  of  the  king, 
because  a  glass  door  led  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  the 
officials  could  then  look  in  upon  the  royal  family.  The 
functionary  had  withdrawn  in  order  to  conduct  the  queen, 
the  children,  and  tne  king's  sister  from  the  upper  tower. 
The  king  was  awaiting  them,  walked  disquietly  up  and 
down,  and  then  directed  Clery,  who  was  arranging  the  lit- 
tle room,  to  set  the  round  table,  which  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  apartment,  on  one  side,  and  then  to  bring  in  a 
carafe  of  water  and  some  glasses.  "But,"  he  added,  con- 
siderately, "  not  ice-water,  for  the  queen  cannot  bear  it, 
and  she  might  be  made  unwell  by  it." 

But  all  at  once  the  king  grew  pale,  and,  standing  still, 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  loudly-beating  heart.  He  had 
heard  the  voice  of  the  queen. 

The  door  opened  and  they  came  in — all  his  dear  ones. 
The  queen  led  the  dauphin  by  the  hand;  Madame  Eliza- 
beth walked  with  the  Princess  Theresa. 

The  king  went  toward  them  and  opened  his  arms  to 
them.  They  all  pressed  up  to  him  and  clasped  him  in 
their  midst,  while  loud  sobs  and  heart-rending  cries  filled 
the  room.  Behind  the  door  were  the  officials,  but  they 
could  not  look  in  upon  the  scene,  for  their  own  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  In  the  king's  cabinet,  not  far  away,  the 
Abbe  Edgewarth  de  Firmont  was  upon  his  knees,  praying  for 
the  unfortunates  whose  wails  and  groans  reached  even  him. 

Gradually  the  sobs  died  away.  They  took  their  places — 
the  queen  at  the  left  of  her  husband;  Madame  Elizabeth, 
his  sister,  at  his  right;  opposite  to  him,  his  daughter, 
Maria  Theresa,  and  between  his  knees  the  dauphin,  look- 
ing up  into  his  father's  face  with  widely-opened  eyes  and 
a  sad  smile. 


340  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

Louis  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  told  them  of  his  trial, 
and  of  the  charges  which  they  had  brought  against  him. 
But  his  words  were  gentle  and  calm,  and  he  expressed,  his 
pity  for  the  "  poor,  misled  men"  who  had  condemned  him. 
He  asked  his  family,  too,  to  forgive  them.  They  answered 
him  only  with  sobs,  embraces,  tears,  and  kisses. 

Then  all  was  still.  The  officials  heard  not  a  word,  but 
they  saw  the  queen,  with  her  children  and  sister-in-law, 
sink  upon  their  knees,  while  the  king,  standing  erect  in 
the  midst  of  the  group,  raised  his  hands  and  blessed  them 
in  gentle,  noble  words,  which  touched  the  heart  of  the 
Abbe  Edgewarth,  who  was  kneeling  behind  the  door  of  the 
neighboring  cabinet.  ^ 

The  king  then  bade  the  family  rise,  took  them  again  in 
his  arms,  and  kissed  the  queen,  who,  pale  and  trembling, 
clung  to  him,  and  whose  quivering  lips  were  not  able  to  re- 
strain a  word  of  denunciation  of  those  who  had  condemned 
him. 

"I  have  forgiven  them,"  said  the  king,  seriously.  "I 
have  written  my  will,  and  in  it  you  will  read  that  I  pardon 
them,  and  that  I  ask  you  to  do  the  same.  Promise  me, 
Marie,  that  you  will  never  think  how  you  may  avenge  my 
death." 

A  smile  full  of  sadness  and  despair  flitted  over  the  pale 
lips  of  the  queen. 

"  I  shall  never  be  in  a  situation  to  take  vengeance  upon 
them,"  she  said.  "But,"  she  added  quickly,  "even  if  I 
should  ever  be  able,  and  the  power  should  be  in  my  hands, 
I  promise  that  I  will  exact  no  vengeance  for  this  deed." 

The  king  stooped  down  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her 
forehead. 

"  I  thank  you,  Marie,  and  I  know  that  you  all,  my  dear 
ones,  will  sacredly  regard  my  last  testament,  and  that  my 
wishes  and  words  will  be  engraven  on  your  hearts.  But, 
my  son" — and  he  took  the  dauphin  upon  his  knee,  and 
looked  down  into  his  face  tenderly — "you  are  still  a  child, 
and  might  forget.  You  have  heard  what  I  have  said,  but 
as  an  oath  is  more  sacred  than  a  word,  raise  your  hand  and 
swear  to  me  you  will  fulfil  my  wish  and  forgive  all  our 
enemies." 

The  boy,  turning  his  great  blue  eyes  fixedly  on  the  king, 


TO   THE    21ST    OF   JANUARY.  341 

and  his  lips  trembling  with  emotion,  raised  his  right  hand, 
and'  even  the  officials  in  the  next  room  could  distinctly 
hear  the  sweet  child's  voice  repeating  the  words:  "  I  swear 
to  you,  papa  king,  that  I  will  forgive  all  our  enemies,  and 
will  do  no  harm  to  those  who  are  going  to  kill  my  dear 
father!" 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  hearts  of  the  men  in  the 
next  room ;  they  drew  back  from  the  door  with  pale  faces. 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  they  had  heard  the  voice  of  an 
angel,  and  a  feeling  of  inexpressible  pain  and  regret  passed 
through  their  souls. 

Within  the  king's  room  all  now  was  still,  and  the  abbe 
in  the  cabinet  heard  only  the  gentle  murmuring  of  their 
prayers,  and  the  suppressed  weeping  and  sobs. 

At  last  the  king  spoke.  "  Now,  go,  my  dear  ones.  I 
must  be  alone.  I  need  to  rest  and  collect  myself." 

A  loud  wail  was  the  answer.  After  some  minutes,  Clery 
opened  the  glass  door,  and  the  royal  family  were  brought 
into  the  view  of  the  officials  once  more.  The  queen  was 
clinging  to  the  right  arm  of  Louis ;  they  each  gave  a  hand 
to  the  dauphin.  Theresa  had  flung  her  arms  around  the 
king's  body,  his  sister  Elizabeth  clung  to  his  left  arm. 
They  thus  moved  forward  a  few  steps  toward  the  door, 
amid  loud  cries  of  grief  and  heart-breaking  sobs. 

"  I  promise  you,"  said  Louis,  "to  see  you  once  more  to- 
morrow morning,  at  eight  o'clock." 

"At  eight!  Why  not  at  seven?"  asked  the  queen,  with 
a  foreboding  tone. 

"Well,  then,"  answered  the  king,  gently,  "at  seven. 
Farewell,  farewell!" 

The  depth  of  sadness  in  his  utterance  with  which  he 
spoke  the  last  parting  word,  doubled  the  tears  and  sobs  of 
the  weeping  family.  The  daughter  fell  in  a  swoon  at  the 
feet  of  her  father,  and  Clery,  assisted  by  the  Princess 
Elizabeth,  raised  her  up. 

"  Papa,  my  dear  papa,"  cried  the  dauphin,  nestling  up 
closely  to  his  father,  "  let  us  stay  with  you." 

The  queen  said  not  a  word.  With  pale  face  and  with 
widely-opened  eyes  she  looked  fixedly  at  the  king,  as 
though  she  wanted  to  impress  his  countenance  on  her 
heart. 


342  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  Farewell,  farewell!"  cried  the  king,  once  more,  and  he 
turned  quickly  around  and  hurried  into  the  next  room. 

A  single  cry  of  grief  and  horror  issued  from  all  lips. 
The  two  children,  soon  to  be  orphans,  then  clung  closely 
to  their  mother,  who  threw  herself,  overmastered  by  her 
sobbing,  on  the  neck  of  her  sister-in-law. 

"  Forward !  The  Capet  family  will  return  to  their  own 
apartments!"  cried  one  of  the  officials. 

Marie  Antoinette  raised  herself  up,  her  eye  flashed,  and 
with  a  voice  full  of  anger,  she  cried :  "  You  are  hangmen 
and  traitors!"  * 

The  king  had  withdrawn  to  his  cabinet,  where  the  priest, 
Abbe  Edgewarth  de  Firmont,  addressed  him  with  comfort- 
ing words.  His  earnest  request  had  been  granted,  to  give 
the  king  the  sacrament  before  his  death.  The  service  was 
to  take  place  very  early  the  next  morning,  so  ran  the  de- 
cision of  the  authorities,  and  at  seven  the  king  was  to  be 
taken  to  execution. 

Louis  received  the  first  part  of  this  communication  joy- 
fully, the  second  part  with  complete  calmness. 

"  As  I  must  rise  so  early,"  he  said  to  his  valet  Clery,  "  I 
must  retire  early.  This  day  has  been  a  very  trying  one 
for  me,  and  I  need  rest,  so  as  not  to  be  weak  to-morrow." 
He  was  then  undressed  by  the  servant,  and  lay  down. 
When  Clery  came  at  five  the  next  morning  to  dress  him, 
he  found  the  king  still  asleep,  and  they  must  have  been 
pleasant  dreams  which  were  passing  before  him,  for  a  smile 
was  playing  on  his  lips. 

The  king  was  dressed,  and  the  priest  gave  him  the  sac- 
rament, the  vessels  used  having  been  taken  from  the  neigh- 
boring Capuchin  church  of  Marais.  An  old  chest  of 
drawers  was  converted  by  Clery  into  an  altar,  two  ordinary 
candlesticks  stood  on  each  side  of  the  cup,  and  in  them 
two  tallow  candles  burned,  instead  of  wax.  Before  this 
altar  kneeled  King  Louis  XVI.,  lost  in  thought  and 
prayer,  and  wearing  a  calm,  peaceful  face. 

The  priest  read  the  mass;  Clery  responded  as  sacristan; 
and  even  while  the  king  was  receiving  the  elements,  the 
sound  of  the  drums  and  trumpets  was  heard  without,  which 
awakened  Paris  that  morning  and  told  the  city  that  the 

*  Beauchesne,  vol.  i.,  p.  449. 


TO   THE   31ST   OF   JANUARY.  343 

King  of  France  was  being  led  to  his  execution.  Cannon 
were  rattling  through  the  streets,  and  National  Guardsmen 
were  hurrying  on  foot  and  on  horse  along  the  whole  of  the 
way  that  led  from  the  Temple  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
A  rank  of  men,  four  deep  and  standing  close  to  one  an- 
other, armed  with  pikes  and  other  weapons,  guarded  both 
sides  of  the  street,  and  made  it  impossible  for  those  who 
wanted  to  liberate  the  king  during  the  ride,  to  come  near 
to  him.  The  authorities  knew  that  one  of  the  bravest  and 
most  determined  partisans  of  the  king  had  arrived  in 
Paris,  and  that  he,  in  conjunction  with  a  number  of  young 
and  brave-spirited  men,  had  resolved  on  rescuing  the  king 
at  any  cost,  during  his  ride  to  the  place  of  execution. 
The  utmost  precautions  had  been  taken  to  render  this  im- 
possible. Through  the  dense  ranks  of  the  National  Guard, 
which  to-day  was  composed  of  mere  sans-culottes,  the  rag- 
ing, bloodthirsty  men  of  the  suburbs  drove  the  carriage  in 
which  was  the  king,  followed  and  escorted  by  National 
Guardsmen  on  horseback.  The  windows  were  all  closed 
and  the  curtains  drawn  in  the  houses  by  which  the  proces- 
sion passed;  but  behind  those  curtained  windows  it  is  prob- 
able that  people  were  upon  their  knees  praying  for  the 
unhappy  man  who  was  now  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold,  and 
who  was  once  King  of  France. 

All  at  once  there  arose  a  movement  in  this  dreadful 
hedge  of  armed  men,  through  which  the  carriage  was  pass- 
ing. Two  young  men  cried:  "To  us,  Frenchmen — to  us, 
all  who  want  to  save  the  king!" 

But  the  cry  found  no  response.  Every  one  looked  horri- 
fied at  his  neighbor,  and  believed  he  saw  in  him  a  spy  or  a 
murderer ;  fear  benumbed  all  their  souls,  and  the  silence 
of  death  reigned  around. 

The  two  young  men  wanted  to  flee,  to  escape  into  a 
house  close  by.  But  the  door  was  closed,  and  before  the 
very  door  they  were  cut  down  and  hewn  in  pieces  by  the 
exasperated  sans-culottes, 

The  carriage  of  the  king  rolled  on,  and  Louis  paid  no 
more  attention  to  objects  around  him;  in  the  prayer-book 
which  he  carried  in  his  hands  he  read  the  petitions  for  the 
dying,  and  the  abbe  prayed  with  him. 

The  coachman  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  and  the 


344  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

king  dismounted.  A  forest  of  pikes  surrounded  the  spot. 
The  drummers  beat  loudly,  but  the  king  cried  with  a  loud 
voice,  "Silence!"  and  the  noise  ceased.  On  that,  San- 
terre  sprang  forward  and  commanded  them  to  commence 
beating  their  drums  again,  and  they  obeyed  him.  The 
king  took  off  his  upper  garments,  and  the  executioners  ap- 
proached to  cut  off  his  hair.  He  quietly  let  this  be  done, 
but  when  they  wanted  to  tie  his  hands,  his  eyes  flashed  with 
anger,  and  with  a  firm  voice  he  refused  to  allow  them  to 
do  so. 

"  Sire,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  see  in  this  new  insult  only  a 
fresh  point  of  resemblance  between  your  majesty  and  our 
Saviour,  who  will  be  your  recompense  and  your  strength." 

Louis  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  with  an  indescribable  ex- 
pression of  grief  and  resignation.  "  Truly,"  he  said,  "  only 
ray  recollection  of  Him  and  His  example  can  enable  me  to 
endure  this  new  degradation." 

He  gave  his  hands  to  the  executioner,  to  let  them  be 
bound.  Then  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  abbe,  he  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  scaffold.  The  twenty  drummers,  who 
stood  around  the  staging,  beat  their  drums;  but  the  king, 
advancing  to  the  very  verge  of  the  scaffold,  commanded 
them  with  a  loud  voice  to  be  silent,  and  the  noise  ceased. 

In  a  tone  which  was  audible  across  the  whole  square,  and 
which  made  every  word  intelligible,  the  king  said :  "  I  die 
innocent  of  all  the  charges  which  are  brought  against  me. 
I  forgive  those  who  have  caused  my  death,  and  I  pray  God 
that  the  blood  which  you  spill  this  day  may  never  come 
back  upon  the  head  of  France.  And  you,  unhappy  peo- 
pie-" 

"Do  not  let  him  go  on  talking  this  way,"  cried  San- 
terre's  commanding  voice,  interrupting  the  king;  then 
turning  to  Louis  he  said,  in  an  angry  tone,  "  I  brought  you 
here  not  to  make  speeches,  but  to  die!" 

The  drums  beat,  the  executioners  seized  the  king  and 
bent  him  down.  The  priest  stooped  over  him  and  mur- 
mured some  words  which  only  God  heard,  but  which  a 
tradition  full  of  admiration  and  sympathy  has  transposed 
into  the  immortal  and  popular  formula  which  is  truer  than 
truth  and  more  historical  than  history:  "  Son  of  St.  Louis, 
ascend  to  Heaven!" 


TO    THE    21ST    OF   JANUARY.  345 

The  drums  beat,  a  glistening  object  passed  through  the 
air,  a  stroke  was  heard,  and  blood  spirted  up.  The  King 
of  France  was  dead,  and  Samson  the  executioner  lifted  up 
the  head,  which  had  once  borne  a  crown,  to  show  it  to  the 
people. 

A  dreadful  silence  followed  for  an  instant ;  then  the  pop- 
ulace broke  in  masses  through  the  rows  of  soldiers,  and 
rushed  to  the  scaffold,  in  order  to  bear  away  some  remem- 
brances of  this  ever-memorable  event.  The  clothes  of  the 
king  were  torn  to  rags  and  distributed,  and  they  even  gave 
the  executioner  some  gold  in  exchange  for  locks  of  hair 
from  the  bleeding  head.  An  Englishman  gave  a  child  fif- 
teen louis  d'or  for  dipping  his  handkerchief  in  the  blood 
which  flowed  from  the  scaffold.  Another  paid  thirty  louis 
d'or  for  the  peruke  of  the  king.* 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  the  executioner  Sam- 
son, shocked  at  the  terrible  deed  which  he  had  done,  went 
to  a  priest,  paid  for  masses  to  be  said  for  the  repose  of  the 
king,  then  laid  down  his  office,  retired  into  solitude,  and 
died  in  six  months.  His  son  was  his  successor  in  his 
ghostly  office,  and,  in  a  pious  manner,  he  continued  what 
his  father  began.  The  masses  for  the  king,  instituted  by 
the  two  Samsons,  continued  to  be  read  till  the  year  1840.  f 

On  the  morrow  which  followed  this  dreadful  day,  the 
"  Widow  Capet"  requested  the  authorities  to  provide  for 

*  These  details  I  take  from  the  "Vossische  Zeitung,"  which,  in  its  issue  of 
the  5th  of  February,  1793,  contains  a  full  report  of  the  execution  of  King 
Louis  XVI. ,  and  also  announces  that  the  court  of  Prussia  will  testify  its  grief 
at  the  unmerited  fate  by  wearing  mourning  for  a  period  of  four  weeks.  The 
author  of  this  work  possesses  a  copy  of  the  "Vossische  Zeitung"of  that  date, 
in  small  quarto  form,  printed  on  thick,  gray  paper.  In  the  same  number  of 
the  journal  is  a  fable  by  Hermann  Pfeffel,  which  runs  in  the  following  strain: 

FIRST    MORAL,  THEN    POLITICAL   FREEDOM. 

A  FABLE,    BY  HERMANN  PFEKFEL. 
ZEUS       AND       THE       TIGERS. 

To  Zeus  there  came  one  day 
A  deputation  of  tigers.     "Mighty  potentate." 
Thus  spoke  their  Cicero  before  the  monarch's  throne, 
"The  noble  nation  of  tigers. 

Has  long  been  wearied  with  the  lion's  choice  as  king. 
Does  not  Nature  give  us  an  equal  claim  with  his? 
Therefore,  O  Zeus,  declare  my  race 
To  be  a  people  of  free  citizens !" 
"No,"  said  the  god  of  gods,  "it  cannot  be; 
You  are  deceivers,  thieves,  and  murderers, 
Only  a  good  people  merits  being  free.  " 
t"  Marie  Antoinette  et  sa  Famille,"  par  Lescure,  p.  648. 


346  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

herself  and  her  family  a  suite  of  mourning  of  the  simplest 
kind. 

The  republic  was  magnanimous  enough  to  comply  with 
this  request. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

TOULAN. 

THE  citizen  Toulan  is  on  guard  again  at  the  Temple, 
and  this  time  with  his  friend  Lepitre.  He  is  so  trust- 
worthy and  blameless  a  republican,  and  so  zealous  a  citizen, 
that  the  republic  gives  him  unconditional  confidence.  The 
republic  had  appointed  him  as  chief  of  the  bureau  for  the 
control  of  the  effects  of  emigres.  Toulan  is,  besides,  a 
member  of  the  Convention ;  and  it  is  not  his  fault  that,  on 
the  day  when  the  decision  was  made  respecting  the  king's 
life  or  death,  he  was  not  in  the  Assembly.  He  had  been 
compelled  at  that  time  to  make  a  journey  into  the  prov- 
inces, to  attach  the  property  of  an  aristocrat  who  had  emi- 
grated. Had  Toulan  been  in  Paris,  he  would  naturally 
have  given  his  voice  in  favor  of  the  execution  of  the  king. 
He  says  this  freely  and  openly  to  every  one,  and  every  one 
believes  him,  for  Toulan  is  an  entirely  unsuspected  repub- 
lican. He  belongs  to  the  sans-culottes,  and  takes  pride  in 
not  being  dressed  better  than  the  meanest  citizen.  He 
belongs  to  the  friends  of  Marat,  and  Simon  the  cobbler  is 
always  happy  when  Toulan  has  the  watch  in  the  Temple; 
for  Toulan  is  such  a  jovial,  merry  fellow,  he  can  make  such 
capital  jokes  and  laugh  so  heartily  at  those  of  others. 
They  have  such  fine  times  when  Toulau  is  there,  and  the 
sport  is  the  greatest  when  his  friend  Lepitre  is  with  him 
on  service  in  the  Temple.  Then  the  two  have  the  grandest 
sport  of  all ;  they  even  have  little  plays,  which  are  so  funny 
that  Simon  has  to  laugh  outright,  and  even  the  turnkey 
Tison,  and  his  wife,  forget  to  keep  guard,  and  leave  the 
glass  door  through  which  they  have  been  watching  the 
royal  family,  in  order  to  be  spectators  at  Toulan's  little 
farces. 

"  These  are  jolly  days  when  you  are  both  in  the  Temple," 


TOULAN.  347 

said  Simon,  "  and  you  cannot  blame  me  if  I  like  to  have 
you  here,  and  put  you  on  service  pretty  often." 

"  Oh,  we  do  not  blame  you  for  that,"  said  Toulan,  "on 
the  other  hand,  we  particularly  like  being  with  you,  you 
are  such  a  splendid  fellow!" 

"And  then,"  adds  Lepitre  to  this,  "it  is  so  pleasant  to 
see  the  proud  she-wolf  and  her  young  ones,  and  to  set 
them  down  a  little.  These  people,  when  they  were  living 
in  the  Tuileries,  have  turned  up  their  noses  at  us  often 
enough,  and  acted  as  if  we  were  only  dust  that  they  must 
blow  away  from  their  exalted  presence.  It  is  time  that 
they  should  feel  a  little  that  they  are  only  dust  for  us  to 
blow  away!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  chimed  in  Toulan,  "it  is  high  time  that 
they  should  feel  it!" 

"And  you  both  understood  that  matter  capitally,"  said 
Simon,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  always  see  that  it  particularly 
provokes  the  queen  to  have  you  on  service,  and  I  like  that, 
and  I  am  especially  glad  to  have  you  here." 

"  I've  thought  out  a  joke  for  to-day,"  said  Toulan.  "  I 
will  teach  the  widow  to  smoke.  You  know,  brother 
Simon,  that  she  always  pretends  not  to  be  able  to  bear  the 
smell  of  tobacco,  she  shall  learn  to  bear  it.  I  will  hand 
her  a  paper  cigarette  to-day,  and  tell  her  that  if  she  does 
not  want  us  to  smoke,  she  must  smoke  with  us." 

"Splendid  joke!"  said  Simon,  with  a  loud  laugh. 

"  But  there's  one  thing  to  be  thought  of  about  that," 
said  Lepitre,  reflectively.  "  The  widow  Capet  might  per- 
haps promise  to  smoke,  if  we  would  tell  her  that  we  would 
never  smoke  afterward.  But  then  we  should  not  keep  our 
word,  of  course." 

"What!  you  say  we  should  not  keep  our  word!"  said 
Toulan,  in  amazement.  "We  are  republicans;  more  than 
that,  we  are  sans- culottes  !  and  shall  we  not  keep  our  word? 
ought  we  not  to  be  better  than  the  cursed  aristocrats,  that 
never  kept  their  word  to  the  people?  How  can  you  dis- 
grace us  and  yourself  so  much?  Ask  our  noble  friend  and 
brother  Simon,  whether  he  is  of  the  opinion  that  a  free 
man  ought  not  to  keep  his  word,  even  if  he  has  only  given 
it  to  a  woman  in  prison." 

"I  am  of  that  opinion,"  said  Simon,  with  dignity.  "I 
23 


348  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

swore  to  myself  that  the  king  should  lose  his  head,  and  I 
kept  my  word.  I  promised  the  she-wolf  that  she  should 
be  hanged,  and  I  hope  to  keep  this  promise  too.  If  I  keep 
my  word  to  her  in  what  is  bad,  I  must  do  so  also  in  what 
is  good.  If  a  republican  promises  any  thing,  he  must  hold 
to  it." 

"  Eight,  Simon,  you  are  a  noble  and  wise  man.  It  re- 
mains fixed,  then,  that  the  queen  shall  smoke,  but  if  we 
have  our  joke  out,  we  shall  not  smoke  any  more." 

"I  will  put  up  a  placard  on  the  door:  'Smoking  forbid' 
den  in  the  anteroom  of  the  she-wolf. ' ' 

"  Good,"  cried  Toulan,  "  that  is  worthy  of  you." 

"Let  us  go  up  now,"  said  Simon,  "the  two  other  sen- 
tries are  up-stairs  already,  they  will  wonder  that  you  come 
so  late,  but  I  do  like  to  chat  with  you.  Come  on,  let's  go 
up.  I'll  stay  there  to  see  the  joke.  But  wait  a  moment, 
there  is  something  new.  It  has  been  proposed  that  not  so 
many  guards  are  needed  to  watch  the  Capets,  and  that  it 
has  the  appearance  as  if  the  government  was  afraid  of 
these  howling  women  and  this  little  monkey,  whom  the 
crazy  royalists  call  King  Louis  XVII.  It  is  very  likely 
that  they  will  reduce  the  guard  to  two." 

"Very  good,"  said  Toulan,  approvingly. — "What's 
the  use  of  wearying  out  so  many  other  men  and  condemn- 
ing them  to  such  idleness?  We  cannot  be  making  jokes 
all  the  time;  and  then  again  it  is  not  pleasant  always  look- 
ing on  these  people's  long  faces." 

"  So  only  two  guards,"  said  Lepitre;  "  but  that  seems  to 
me  rather  too  few,  for  what  if  the  widow  should  succeed  in 
winning  them  over  and  getting  them  to  help  her  escape?" 

"Impossible!"  cried  Simon,  " she'll  never  come  around 
me,  and  as  long  as  I  have  my  eyes  open,  she  and  her  brood 
will  never  get  away.  No  one  can  come  down  the  staircase 
without  my  hearing  and  seeing  it,  for  you  know  my  rooms 
are  near  the  stairs,  and  the  door  is  always  open  and  I  am 
always  there,  and  then  there  is  the  turnkey  Eicard,  who 
watches  the  door  that  leads  to  the  court  like  a  cerberus. 
Then  there  are  three  sentries  at  the  doors  leading  from  the 
inner  court  to  the  outer  one,  and  the  four  sentries  at  the 
doors  leading  from  the  outer  court  to  the  street.  No,  no, 
my  friends,  if  the  she-wolf  wants  to  escape  she  must  use 


TOULAN  349 

magic,  and   make  wings  grow  on  her   shoulders  and   fly 
away." 

"That  is  good,  I  like  that,"  said  Toulan,  springing  up 
the  staircase. 

"And  that  settles  my  doubts  too,"  said  Lepitre.  "I 
should  think  two  official  guards  would  suffice,  for  it  is 
plain  that  she  cannot  escape.  Simon  is  on  the  look-out, 
and  it  is  plain  that  the  she-wolf  cannot  transform  herself 
into  an  eagle." 

"Well  said,"  laughed  Simon;  "here  we  are  before  the 
door,  let's  go  in  and  have  our  fun. " 

He  dashed  the  door  open  noisily,  and  went  into  the 
room  with  the  two  men.  Two  officials  were  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  at  the  table,  and  were  actively  engaged 
playing  cards.  Through  the  open  door  you  could  look 
into  the  sitting-room  of  the  Capet  family.  The  queen  was 
sitting  on  the  divan  behind  the  round  table,  clothed  in  her 
sad  suit  of  mourning,  with  a  black  cap  upon  her  gray  locks. 

She  was  busy  in  dictating  an  exercise  to  the  dauphin 
from  a  book  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  The  prince,  also 
clad  in  black  and  with  a  broad  crape  about  his  arm,  sat 
upon  a  chair  by  her  side.  His  whole  attention  was  di- 
rected to  his  work,  and  he  was  visibly  making  an  effort  to 
write  as  well  as  possible,  for  a  glowing  red  suffused  his 
cheeks. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  queen  sat  Madame  Elizabeth ; 
near  her  the  Princess  Maria  Theresa,  both  busy  in  prepar- 
ing some  clothing  for  the  queen. 

No  one  of  the  group  appeared  to  notice  the  loud  opening 
of  the  door,  no  one  observed  the  entering  forms,  or  cast 
even  a  momentary  glance  at  them. 

But  Toulan  was  not  contented  with  this;  he  demanded 
nothing  less  than  that  the  she-wolf  should  look  at  him. 
He  hurried  through  the  anteroom  with  a  threatening 
tread,  advanced  to  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  and 
stopped  upon  the  threshold,  making  such  a  deep  and  cere- 
monious bow,  and  swinging  his  arm  so  comically,  that 
Simon  was  compelled  to  laugh  aloud. 

"Madame,"  cried  Toulan,  "I  have  the  inexpressible 
honor  of  greeting  your  grace." 

"He  is  a  brick,  a  perfect  brick,"  roared  Simon. 


350  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Lepitre  had  gone  to  the  window,  and  turned  his  back 
upon  the  room;  he  was  perhaps  too  deficient  in  spirit  to 
join  in  the  joke.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him;  no- 
body saw  him  take  a  little  packet  from  his  coat-pocket, 
and  slide  it  slowly  and  carefully  behind  the  wooden  box 
that  stood  beneath  the  window. 

" Madame, "  cried  Toulan,  in  a  still  louder  voice,  "I 
fear  your  grace  has  not  heard  my  salutation." 

The  queen  slowly  raised  her  eyes,  and  turned  them  to 
the  man  who  was  still  standing  upon  the  threshold.  "  I 
heard  it,"  she  said,  coldly,  "go  on  writing,  my  son." 
And  she  went  on  in  the  sentence  that  she  had  just  then 
begun  to  dictate. 

"  I  am  so  happy  at  being  heard  by  Madame  Veto  that  I 
shall  have  to  celebrate  it  by  a  little  bonfire!"  said  Toulan, 
taking  a  cigar  from  his  breast-pocket.  "  You  see,  my 
friends,  that  I  am  a  very  good  courtier,  though  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  a  sans-culottes.  In  the  presence  of  handsome 
ladies  I  only  smoke  cigars!  Hallo!  bring  me  a  little  fire." 

One  of  the  officials  silently  passed  him  his  long  pipe. 
Toulan  lighted  his  cigar,  placed  himself  at  the  threshold, 
and  blew  great  clouds  of  smoke  into  the  chamber. 

The  ladies  still  continued  to  sit  quietly  without  paying 
any  attention  to  Toulan.  The  queen  dictated,  and  the 
dauphin  wrote.  The  queen  only  interrupted  herself  in  this 
occupation,  when  she  had  to  cough  and  wipe  her  eyes, 
which  the  smoke  filled  with  tears. 

Toulan  had  followed  every  one  of  her  movements  with 
an  amused  look.  "  Madame  does  not  appear  to  take  any 
pleasure  in  my  bonfire!"  he  said.  "Will  madame  not 
smoke?" 

The  queen  made  no  reply,  but  quietly  went  on  with 
her  dictation. 

"Madame,"  cried  Toulan,  laughing  loudly,  "I  should 
like  to  smoke  a  pipe  of  peace  with  you,  as  our  brown 
brethren  in  happy,  free  America  do — madame,  I  beg  you  to 
do  me  the  honor  to  smoke  a  pipe  of  peace  with  me." 

A  flash  lightened  in  the  eyes  which  the  queen  now  di- 
rected to  Toulan.  "  You  are  a  shameless  fellow!"  she  said. 

"Hear  that,"  said  Simon,  "that  is  what  I  call  abusing 
you." 


TOULAN.  351 

"On  the  contrary,  it  delights  me,"  cried  Toulan,  "for 
you  will  confess  that  it  would  be  jolly  if  she  should  smoke 
now,  and  I  tell  you,  she  will  smoke." 

He  advanced  some  paces  into  the  room,  and  made  his 
deep  bow  again. 

"  He  understands  manners  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  a 
rascally  courtier  himself,"  said  Simon,  laughing.  "  It  is  a 
splendid  joke." 

The  two  princesses  had  arisen  at  the  entrance  of  Toulan, 
and  laid  their  sewing-work  aside.  A  ball  of  white  cotton 
had  fallen  to  the  ground  from  the  lap  of  one  of  them,  and 
rolled  through  the  room  toward  Toulan. 

He  picked  it  up,  and  bowed  to  the  princesses.  "  May  I 
view  this  little  globe,"  he  said,  "as  a  reminder  of  the  favor 
of  the  loveliest  ladies  of  France?  Oh,  yes,  I  see  in  your 
roguish  smile  that  I  may,  and  I  thank  you,"  said  Toulan, 
pressing  the  round  ball  to  his  lips,  and  then  putting  it 
into  his  breast-pocket. 

"  He  plays  as  well  as  the  fellows  do  in  the  theatre,"  said 
Simon,  laughing. 

"Go  into  our  sleeping-room,"  said  Marie  Antoinette, 
turning  to  the  princesses.  "  It  is  enough  for  me  to  have 
to  bear  these  indignities — go,  my  son,  accompany  your 
aunt." 

The  dauphin  stood  up,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  the  hand  of 
his  mother,  and  followed  the  two  princesses,  who  had  gone 
into  the  adjoining  apartment. 

"Dear  aunt,"  whispered  the  dauphin,  "is  this  bad  man 
the  good  friend  who — " 

"Hush!"  whispered  Madame  Elizabeth,  "hush!  Ma- 
dame Tison  is  listening." 

And,  in  fact,  at  the  glass-door,  which  led  from  the  sleep- 
ing-room to  the  little  corridor,  stood  Madame  Tison,  look- 
ing with  sharp,  searching  glances  into  the  chamber. 

After  the  princesses  had  left  the  room,  Toulan  ap- 
proached still  closer  to  the  queen,  and  taking  a  cigar  from 
his  breast-pocket,  he  handed  it  to  the  queen.  "  Take  it, 
madame,"  he  said,  "and  do  me  the  honor  of  smoking  a 
duet  with  me!" 

"I  do  not  smoke,  sir,"  replied  the  queen,  coolly  and 
calmly.  "  I  beg  you  to  go  into  the  anteroom.  The  Con- 


352  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

vention  has  not,  so  far  as  I  understand,  ordered  the  officers 
of  the  guard  to  tarry  in  my  sitting-room." 

"  The  Convention  has  not  ordered  it,  nor  has  it  forbid- 
den it.  So  I  remain!" 

He  took  a  chair,  seated  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  rolled  out  great  clouds  of  smoke,  which  filled 
Simon  with  unspeakable  delight  when  they  compelled  Ma- 
rie Antoinette  to  cough  violently. 

"  Madame  Capet,  you  would  not  be  so  sensitive  to  smoke 
if  you  would  only  join  me.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to  take 
this  cigar." 

The  queen  repeated  calmly,  "  I  do  not  smoke." 

"You  mistake,  madame,  you  do  smoke." 

"  See  the  jolly  fellow,"  exclaimed  Simon,  "  that  is  splen- 
did." 

"  I  will  show  you  at  once  that  you  do  smoke,"  continued 
Toulan.  "  Madame,  if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  join 
me  in  smoking  a  cigar,  I  will  give  you  my  word  as  a  re- 
publican and  a  sans-culottes,  that  neither  I  nor  my  brothers 
will  ever  smoke  here  again." 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  said  the  queen,  shaking  her 
head. 

"Not  believe  me?  Would  you  believe  it  if  the  citizen 
Simon  were  to  repeat  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  queen,  fixing  her  great,  sad  eyes  upon 
Simon,  "  if  the  citizen  Simon  should  confirm  it,  I  would 
believe  it,  for  he  is  a  trustworthy  man,  who  I  believe  never 
breaks  his  word." 

"Oh!  only  see  how  well  the  Austrian  understands  our 
noble  brother  Simon,"  cried  Lepitre. 

"Yes,  truly,  it  seems  so,"  said  Simon,  who  had  been 
flattered  by  this  praise  to  consent  to  what  he  had  no  incli- 
nation for.  "  Well,  I  give  my  word  to  Widow  Capet,  as  a 
republican  and  a  sans-culottes,  that  there  shall  be  no  smok- 
ing in  the  anteroom  after  this  time,  if  she  will  do  my  friend 
Toulan  the  favor  of  smoking  a  pipe  of  peace  with  him." 

"  I  believe  your  word,"  said  the  queen,  with  a  gentle  in- 
clination of  her  head;  and  then  turning  to  Toulan,  she 
continued,  "sir — " 

"There  are  no  'sirs'  here,  only  'citizens,'"  interrupted 
the  cobbler. 


TOULAN.  353 

"Citizen  Toulan,"  said  the  queen,  changing  her  expres- 
sion," give  me  the  cigar,  I  see  that  I  was  wrong,  I  do  smoke !" 

Simon  cried  aloud  with  laughter  and  delight,  and  could 
scarcely  control  himself,  when,  kneeling  before  the  queen, 
as  the  players  do  in  the  grand  plays  at  the  theatre,  he 
handed  her  a  cigar. 

But  he  did  not  see  the  supplicatory  look  which  Toulan 
fixed  upon  the  queen;  he  did  not  see  the  tears  which 
started  into  his  eyes,  nor  hear  her  say,  during  his  inordi- 
nate peals  of  laughter,  "  I  thank  you,  my  faithful  one!" 

"  Is  it  enough  if  I  take  the  cigar  in  my  mouth,  or  must 
I  burn  it?"  asked  the  queen. 

"  Certainly,  she  must  burn  it,"  cried  Simon.  "Light 
the  cigar  for  her,  Citizen  Toulan." 

Toulan  drew  a  bit  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  folded  it  to- 
gether, kindled  it,  and  gave  it  to  the  queen.  Then,  as 
soon  as  the  dry  cigar  began  to  burn,  he  put  out  the  light, 
and  threw  it  carelessly  upon  the  table. 

The  queen  put  the  little  smoking  cigarette  into  her 
mouth.  "Bravo,  bravo!"  shouted  the  officials  and  Simon. 
"  Bravo,  Citizen  Toulan  is  a  pefrect  brick !  He  has  taught 
Widow  Capet  how  to  smoke." 

"I  told  you  I  would,"  said  Toulan,  proudly.  "Widow 
Capet  has  had  to  comply  with  our  will,  and  that  is  enough. 
You  need  not  go  on,  madame.  You  have  acknowledged 
our  power,  and  that  is  all  we  wanted.  That  is  enough, 
Simon,  is  it  not?  She  does  not  need  to  smoke  any  longer, 
and  we,  too,  must  stop." 

"  No,  she  does  not  need  to  smoke  any  longer,  and  there 
will  be  no  more  smoking  in  the  antechamber." 

The  queen  took  the  paper  cigarette  from  her  mouth,  put 
out  the  burning  end,  and  laid  the  remaining  portion  in 
her  work-basket. 

"  Citizen  Toulan,"  said  she,  "  I  will  keep  this  cigar  as  a 
remembrancer  of  this  hour,  and  if  you  ever  smoke  here 
again,  I  shall  show  it  to  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  Austrian  woman  doubting  the 
word  of  a  sans-culottes,"  cried  Simon. 

"And  I  too,  Simon,"  replied  Toulan,  going  back  into 
the  anteroom.  "  We  will  teach  her  that  she  must  trust  our 
word.  You  see  that  I  am  a  good  teacher." 


354  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"An  excellent  one,"  cried  Simon;  "I  must  compliment 
you  on  it,  citizen.  But  if  you  have  no  objections,  we  will 
play  a  game  or  two  of  cards  with  the  citizens  here." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Toulan.  "  But  I  hope  you  have  got 
the  new  kind  of  cards,  which  have  no  kings  and  queens  on 
them.  For,  I  tell  you,  I  do  not  play  with  the  villanous 
old  kind." 

"  Nor  I,"  chimed  in  Lepitre.  "  It  makes  me  mad  to  see 
the  old  stupids  with  their  crowns  on  that  are  on  the  old 
kind  of  cards." 

"  You  are  a  pair  of  out-and-out  republicans,"  said  Simon, 
admiringly.  "  Truly,  one  might  learn  of  you  how  a  sans- 
culottes ought  to  bear  himself." 

"Well,  you  can  calm  yourselves  about  these,  brothers," 
said  one  of  the  officials ;  "  we  have  no  tyrant-cards — we 
have  the  new  cards  of  the  republic.  See  there !  instead  of 
the  king,  there  is  a  sans-culottes;  instead  of  the  queen,  we 
have  a  'knitter,'  *  and  for  the  jack,  we  have  a  Swiss  soldier, 
for  they  were  the  menials  of  the  old  monarchy."  f 

"That  is  good;  well,  we  will  play  then,"  cried  Toulan, 
with  an  air  of  good-humor. 

They  all  took  their  places  at  the  table,  while  the  queen 
took  up  the  sewing  on  which  the  princesses  had  been  en- 
gaged before. 

After  some  time,  when  the  thread  with  which  she  was 
sewing  was  exhausted,  Marie  Antoinette  raised  her  eyes 
and  turned  them  to  the  men,  who  had  laid  their  pipes 
aside,  and  were  zealously  engaged  upon  their  cards.  The 
mien  of  the  queen  was  no  longer  so  calm  and  rigidly  com- 
posed as  it  had  been  before,  and  when  she  spoke,  there  was 
a  slight  quivering  discernible  in  her  voice. 

"Citizen  Toulan,"  she  said,  "I  beg  you  to  give  me  the 
ball  of  thread  again.  I  have  no  more,  and  this  dress  is  in 
a  wretched  condition;  I  must  mend  it." 

Toulan  turned  toward  her  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

*  The  market-women  and  hucksters  had  the  privilege  of  claiming  the  first 
seats  on  the  spectators'  platform,  near  the  guillotine.  They  sat  there  during 
the  executions,  knitting  busily  on  long  stockings,  while  looking  at  the  bloody 
drama  before  them.  Every  time  that  a  head  was  cut  off  and  dropped  into 
the  basket  beneath  the  knife,  the  women  made  a  mark  in  their  knitting- work, 
and  thus  converted  their  stockings  into  a  kind  of  calendar,  which  recorded 
the  number  of  persons  executed.  From  this  circumstance  the  market- 
women  received  the  name  of  "knitters." 

t  Historical.— See  "M6moires  de  la  Marquise  de  Crequi,"  vol.  iii. 


TOULAN.  355 

"  You  disturb  me,  madame,  and  put  me  out  in  the  game. 
What  are  you  saying?" 

"  I  asked  you,  Citizen  Toulan,  to  give  me  the  thread 
again,  because,  without  it,  I  cannot  work." 

"  Oh !  the  ball  which  little  Miss  Capet  gave  me  a  short 
time  ago.  And  so  you  won't  let  me  keep  a  remembrance 
of  the  pretty  girl?" 

"  I  must  mend  this  dress,"  said  the  queen,  gently. 

"Well,  if  you  must,  you  must,"  growled  Toulan,  rising. 
"  Wait  a  moment,  brothers,  till  I  carry  her  the  ball." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  get  up  for?"  asked  Simon. 
"  You  can  throw  it  from  here." 

"  Or  give  it  a  roll  like  a  ball,"  added  Lepitre. 

"  That  is  a  good  idea,"  cried  Toulan,  "  I'll  have  a  little 
game  of  nine-pins.  I  am  quite  at  home  there,  and  can  do 
it  well.  Now  look  sharp !  I  will  contrive  to  roll  the  ball 
between  the  four  feet  of  the  table,  and  strike  the  foot  of 
the  queen." 

"  There  is  no  queen,"  cried  Lepitre,  passionately. 

"  I  am  speaking  of  the  game,  Citizen  Lepitre;  do  me  the 
pleasure  of  not  making  yourself  an  ass.  Now  look,  and  see 
me  roll  it  as  I  said!" 

"  Well,  go  ahead;  we  should  like  to  see  you  do  it,"  cried 
Simon. 

"Yes,  we  would  like  to  see  you  do  it,"  chimed  in  the 
officials,  laying  down  their  cards. 

Toulan  now  drew  out  of  his  breast-pocket  a  black  ball  of 
silk,  and  counted  "One,  two,  three!"  He  then  gave  it  a 
skilful  roll  across  the  floor.  With  attention  and  laughing 
looks,  they  all  watched  it  take  its  course  across  the  waxed 
floor,  as  it  moved  just  where  Toulan  had  said  it  would. 

"  Bravo,  bravo!"  shouted  the  men,  as  the  ball  struck  the 
foot  of  the  queen,  who  stooped  down  slowly  and  picked  it  up. 

"  Toulan  is  a  jolly  good  fellow,"  cried  Simon,  striking 
the  table  with  his  fists  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  "  But  I 
declare  it  seems  to  me  that  the  ball  is  a  good  deal  larger 
now  than  it  was  before." 

"It  may  be,"  answered  Toulan,  emphatically.  "Every 
thing  grows  and  enlarges  itself,  that  a  true  and  genuine 
sans-culottes  carries  next  to  his  heart." 

"Well  said,"  replied   Lepitre.     "But  listen  to  me,  I 


356  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

want  to  make  a  proposition  to  you.  I  must  say  that  it  is 
hard  work — playing  cards  without  smoking." 

"  I  find  it  so,  too,"  sighed  Toulan. 

"  I  rather  think  we  all  do,"  chimed  in  the  others. 

"  But  we  must  keep  our  word,  or  else  the  she- wolf  will 
think  that  we  republicans  are  no  better  than  the  aristocrats 
were!" 

"  Yes,  we  must  keep  our  word,"  said  Lepitre,  "  and  that 
is  why  I  wanted  to  make  the  proposition  that  we  go  out 
and  establish  ourselves  in  the  entry.  We  can  put  the  table 
close  to  the  door,  and  then  we  are  certainly  safe — that  no 
one  can  step  in.  What  do  you  say,  brother  Simon?" 

"  I  say  that  it  is  a  very  good  plan,  and  that  we  will  carry 
it  into  execution  directly.  Come,  friends,  let  us  take  up 
the  table,  and  carry  it  out.  If  the  dogs  are  on  the  watch 
outside,  the  badger  does  not  creep  out  of  his  house. 
Come,  it  is  much  pleasanter  out  there,  and  we  are  not 
ambitious  of  the  honor  of  looking  at  Widow  Capet  all  the 
time.  We  are  perfectly  satisfied,  if  we  do  not  see  her.  I 
hope  there  will  be  an  end  of  this  tedious  service,  and  that 
she  will  soon  go  to  the  place  whither  Louis  Capet  has 
already  gone." 

"  Or,"  cried  Toulan,  laughing,  "she  must  change  herself 
into  an  eagle,  and  fly  out  of  the  window.  Come,  brothers, 
I  long  for  my  pipe.  Let  us  carry  the  table  out  into  the 
entry." 

Simon  opened  the  door  that  led  out  upon  the  landing, 
the  officials  took  up  the  table,  and  Toulan  and  Lepitre  the 
wooden  stools.  One  quick  look  they  cast  into  the  room  of 
the  queen,  whose  eyes  were  turned  to  them.  A  sudden 
movement  of  Lepitre's  hand  pointed  to  the  bench  beneath 
the  window:  a  movement  of  Toulan's  lips  said  "  To-mor- 
row;" then  they  both  turned  away;  went  with  their  stools 
out  upon  the  landing,  and  closed  the  door. 

The  queen  held  her  breath  and  listened.  She  heard 
them  moving  the  chairs  outside,  and  pushing  the  table  up 
against  the  door,  and  detected  Simon's  harsh  voice,  saying, 
"  Now  that  we  have  put  a  gigantic  wooden  lock  on  the 
door,  let  us  smoke  and  play." 

The  queen  sprang  up.  "God  bless  my  faithful  one," 
whispered  she;  "yes,  God  bless  him!" 


TOULAN.  35? 

She  went  hastily  into  the  anteroom,  pressed  her  hand  in 
behind  the  bench  beneath  the  window,  took  out  the  pack- 
age which  Lepitre  had  placed  there,  and  with  a  timid,  anx- 
ious look,  stepped  back  into  her  room.  Here  she  unfolded 
the  bundle.  It  consisted  of  a  boy's  soiled  dress,  an  old 
peruke,  and  an  old  felt  hat. 

The  queen  looked  at  it  with  the  utmost  attention ;  then, 
after  casting  one  long,  searching  look  through  the  room, 
she  hastened  to  the  divan,  pushed  back  the  already  loosened 
cover  of  the  seat,  concealed  the  things  beneatli  it,  and  then 
carefully  smoothed  down  the  upholstery  again. 

She  now  hurried  to  the  door  of  the  sleeping-room,  and 
was  going  to  open  it  hastily.  But  she  bethought  herself  in 
time.  Her  face  showed  too  much  emotion,  her  voice 
might  betray  her.  Madame  Tison  was  certainly  lurking 
behind  the  glass  door,  and  might  notice  her  excitement. 

Marie  Antoinette  again  put  on  her  ordinary  sad  look, 
opened  the  door  slowly  and  gravely,  and  quietly  entered 
the  sleeping-room.  Her  great  eyes,  whose  brightness  had 
long  since  been  extinguished  by  her  tears,  slowly  passed 
around  the  chamber,  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  glass 
door,  descried  behind  it  the  spying  face  of  Tison,  and 
turned  to  the  two  princesses,  who  were  sitting  with  the 
dauphin  on  the  little  divan  in  the  corner. 

"  Mamma,"  asked  the  boy,  "  are  the  bad  men  gone?" 

"Do  not  call  them  so,  my  child,"  replied  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, gently.  "  These  men  only  do  what  others  order 
them  to  do." 

"Then  the  others  are  bad,  mamma,"  said  the  boy, 
quickly.  "  Oh,  yes,  very  bad,  for  they  make  my  dear 
mamma  weep  so  much." 

"  I  do  not  weep  about  them,"  answered  his  mother.  "  I 
weep  because  your  father  is  no  more  with  us.  Think 
about  your  father,  my  son,  and  never  forget  that  he  has 
commanded  us  to  forgive  his  and  our  enemies." 

"  And  never  to  take  vengeance  on  them,"  added  the  boy, 
with  a  grave  look  beyond  his  years,  as  he  folded  his  hands. 
"  Yes,  I  have  sworn  it  to  my  dear  papa,  and  I  shall  keep 
my  word.  I  mean  never  to  take  vengeance  on  our  en- 
emies." 

"  Sister,"  said  the  queen,  after  a  pause,  "  I  want  to  ask 


358  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

you  to  help  me  a  little  in  my  work.  You  know  how  to 
mend,  and  I  want  to  learn  of  you.  Will  you  come  into 
the  sitting-room?" 

"And  we,  too,  mamma,"  asked  the  dauphin,  "may  we 
not  stay  here?  Theresa  has  promised  to  tell  me  an  inter- 
esting story  if  I  did  my  examples  in  arithmetic  correctly, 
and  I  have  done  them." 

"  Well,  she  may  tell  you  the  story.  WTe  will  leave  the 
door  open  so  that  we  can  see  you ;  for  you  know,  my  chil- 
dren, you  are  now  the  only  comfort  left  to  your  aunt  and 
me.  Come,  sister!" 

She  turned  slowly  and  went  into  the  next  room,  followed 
by  Madame  Elizabeth. 

"Why,  what  does  this  mean?"  asked  the  princess,  in 
amazement,  as  she  saw  the  anteroom  deserted  and  the  door 
closed. 

"  All  his  work,  Elizabeth — all  the  work  of  this  noble, 
faithful  Toulan.  He  went  through  a  whole  farce  in  order 
to  get  the  people  out  of  here,  and  to  make  them  swear  that 
they  never  would  smoke  after  this  in  the  anteroom.  Oh, 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  him  for  what  he  has  done  for 
us  at  the  peril  of  his  life." 

"  We  will  pray  for  him  every  morning  and  evening,"  re- 
plied the  pious  Elizabeth.  "  But  tell  me,  sister,  did  Tou- 
lan keep  our  ball  of  thread?" 

"  Yes,  sister,  and  succeeded  in  giving  me  another  in  ex- 
change for  it.  Here  it  is.  To-night,  when  the  guards  are 
asleep,  we  will  unwind  it  and  see  what  it  contains.  But 
here  are  other  important  things  which  we  must  examine. 
Here,  this  half-burned  light  and  this  cigarette!  Let  us  be 
on  the  watch  that  no  one  surprise  us." 

She  went  again  to  the  threshold  of  the  sleeping-room. 

"  Can  you  hear  me  talk,  children?  Nod  with  your  head 
if  you  heard  me.  Good.  If  Tison  comes  in,  speak  to  her 
loudly,  and  call  her  by  name,  so  that  we  may  hear." 

"And  now,  sister,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  table, 
"let  us  see  what  Toulan  has  sent  us.  First,  the  cigar- 
light!" 

She  unfolded  the  paper,  one  side  of  which  was  burned, 
and  showed  a  black,  jagged  edge. 

"A  letter  from  M.  de  Jarjayes,"  she  said,  and  then,  in 


TOULAN.  359 

a  subdued  voice,  she  hastily  read:  "  I  have  spoken  with  the 
noble  messenger  whom  you  sent  to  me  with  a  letter.  He 
has  submitted  his  plan  to  me,  and  I  approve  it  entirely, 
and  am  ready  to  undertake  any  thing  that  is  demanded  of 
me  in  behalf  of  those  to  whom  my  life,  my  property,  and 
my  blood  belong,  and  who  never  shall  have  occasion  to 
doubt  my  fidelity.  The  'true  one'  will  bring  you  to-mor- 
row every  thing  that  is  needful,  and  talk  the  matter  over 
with  you. — J."  "And  now  the  cigarette,"  said  the  queen, 
taking  it  out  of  her  basket. 

"Let  us  first  tear  the  paper  to  pieces,"  said  Princess 
Elizabeth,  warningly. 

"  No,  no,  Tison  would  find  the  bits,  and  think  them  sus- 
picious. I  will  hide  the  paper  in  my  dress-pocket,  and 
this  evening  when  we  have  a  light  we  will  burn  it. 
Quickly  now,  the  cigar!" 

"A  paper  cigarette!"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  Yes,  and  see  on  the  outer  paper,  'Unroll  carefully!'  " 

And  with  extreme  caution  Marie  Antoinette  removed  the 
external  covering.  Beneath  it  was  another,  closely  written 
oVer ;  this  the  queen  proceeded  to  unfold. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  impatiently. 

"See,"  said  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  faint  smile: 
" '  Plan  for  the  escape  of  the  royal  family.  To  learn  by 
heart,  and  then  to  burn. '  Oh !  sister,  do  you  believe  that 
escape  is  possible  for  us?" 

At  this  instant  Simon  was  heard  outside,  singing  with 
his  loud,  coarse  voice : 

"Madame  a  sa  tour  monte 
Ne  sait  quand  descendra, 
Madame  Veto  la  dansera."  * 

The  queen  shuddered,  and  Madame  Elizabeth  folded  her 
hands  and  prayed  in  silence. 

"  You  hear  the  dreadful  answer,  sister,  that  this  sans- 
culotte gives  to  my  question!  Well,  so  long  as  there  is  a 
breath  left  within  us  we  must  endeavor  to  save  the  life  of 
King  Louis  XVII.  Come,  sister,  we  will  read  this  plan 
for  our  escape,  which  the  faithful  Toulan  has  made." 

*  "Madame  will  take  her  turn. 

She  knows  not  when  it  will  come, 
But  Madame  Veto  will  swing. " 


360  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE    PLAN    OF   THE   ESCAPE. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  and  Madame  Elizabeth  listened 
again  at  the  door,  and  as  Simon  was  just  then  beginning 
a  new  verse  of  his  ribald  song,  they  carefully  unrolled  the 
paper  and  spread  it  out  before  them. 

"  Read  it  to  me,  sister,"  said  the  queen.  "  My  eyes  are 
bad  and  pain  me  very  much;  and  then  the  words  make 
more  impression  when  I  hear  them  than  when  I  read 
them;  I  beg  you  therefore  to  read  it." 

In  a  light  whisper  the  princess  began  to  read  "  The  Plan 
of  Escape."  "  The  queen  and  Princess  Elizabeth  must  put 
on  men's  clothes.  The  necessary  garments  are  already  in 
their  possession,  for  T.  and  L.  have  within  the  last  few 
days  secreted  them  in  the  cushions  and  mattresses.  In  ad- 
dition, the  queen  receives  to-day  a  dirty,  torn  boy's  suit 
and  a  peruke,  and  a  pair  of  soiled  children's  shoes.  These 
are  for  the  dauphin  and  Madame  Royale ;  and  if  the  queen 
looks  attentively  at  the  things,  she  will  find  that  they  are 
exact  copies  of  the  clothing  in  which  the  two  children 
appear  who  always  accompany  the  lamplighter  into  the 
tower  and  assist  him  in  lighting  the  lamps.  So  much  for 
the  clothing.  The  plan  of  escape  is  as  follows :  To-morrow 
evening,  at  six  o'clock,  the  royal  children  will  change  their 
dress  in  the  little  tower  next  to  the  chamber  of  the  queen. 
In  their  soiled  costume  they  will  remain  within  the  tower, 
whither  it  is  known  that  Tison  and  his  wife  never  come, 
and  will  wait  there  until  some  one  gives  them  a  signal  and 
calls  them.  Toulan  and  Lepitre  will  arrange  to  have  the 
watch  again  to-morrow  in  the  tower.  At  a  quarter  before 
seven  in  the  evening,  Toulan  will  give  a  pinch  of  snuff  to 
Madame  Tison  and  her  husband,  who  are  both  passion- 
ately fond  of  it,  and  they  will  speedily  take  it  as  they 
always  do.  This  pinch  of  snuff  will  consist  entirely  of 
colored  opium.  They  will  fall  into  a  heavy  sleep,  which 
will  last  at  least  seven  hours,  and  during  this  time  the 
flight  of  all  the  members  of  the  royal  family  must  be 
accomplished — " 


THE    PLAN    OF   THE    ESCAPE.  361 

"Wait  a  moment,  sister,"  whispered  the  queen,  "I  feel 
dizzy,  and  my  heart  beats  violently,  as  if  we  were  engaged 
now  in  the  very  execution  of  the  plan.  It  seems  to  me  as 
if,  in  the  darkness  of  the  dreadful  night  which  surrounds 
us,  a  glimmer  of  hope  was  suddenly  appearing,  and  my 
eyes  are  blinded  with  it.  Oh,  sister,  do  you  really  think 
it  possible  that  we  can  escape  this  place  of  torment?" 

"Escape  we  will  certainly,  my  dear  sister,"  answered 
Elizabeth,  gently,  "but  it  lies  in  God's  hands  whether  it 
is  our  bodies  or  our  souls  only  that  will  escape.  If  we  do 
not  succeed,  they  will  kill  us,  and  then  our  freed  souls  will 
ascend  to  God.  Oh,  my  noble  queen  and  sister,  let  us  pray 
that  God  would  give  us  courage  and  steadfastness  to  hope 
in  Him  and  to  conform  to  His  will." 

"Yes,  sister,  let  us  pray,"  said  the  queen,  folding  her 
hands,  and  reverentially  bending  her  head.  Then  after  a 
pause,  in  which  they  could  hear  from  without  the  noisy 
laughter  of  Simon  and  his  comrades,  the  queen  raised  her- 
self up,  and  her  countenance  had  regained  its  wonted  calm 
and  grave  expression. 

"  And  now,  Elizabeth,  read  on  further.  Let  us  hear  the 
continuation  of  the  plan." 

Madame  Elizabeth  took  the  paper  and  read  on  in  a  whis- 
pering voice :  "  As  soon  as  Tison  and  his  wife  have  fallen 
asleep,  the  queen  and  Madame  Elizabeth  will  put  on  their 
clothes.  Over  the  men's  garments  they  will  throw  the 
cloaks  which  Toulan  brought  yesterday,  and  these  cloaks 
will  disguise  their  gait  and  size.  But  care  must  be  taken 
that  the  tri-colored  sashes  of  the  commissaries  which  Le- 
pitre  brought  yesterday  with  the  admission-cards  of  the 
same  authorities,  should  peep  out  from  beneath  the  cloaks 
so  as  to  be  visible  to  every  one.  Thus  arrayed,  the  two 
ladies  will  pass  by  the  sentry,  showing  him  the  card  as  they 
go  out  (meanwhile  talking  with  Lepitre),  leave  the  Temple, 
and  go  with  Lepitre  to  the  Rue  de  la  (Jonderie,  where  M. 
de  Jarjayes  will  be  waiting  to  conduct  the  ladies  farther." 

"But  the  children,"  whispered  the  queen,  "do  the  chil- 
dren not  accompany  us?  Oh!  they  ought  not  to  think 
that  I  would  leave  this  place  while  my  dear  children  are 
compelled  to  remain  here.  What  is  to  be  done  with  the 
children,  Elizabeth?" 


362  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  We  shall  soon  learn  that,  sister;  allow  me  to  read  on. 
'At  seven  o'clock,  as  soon  as  the  guard  is  changed,  a  man 
disguised  as  a  lamplighter,  with  his  tin  filler  in  his  hand, 
will  appear  at  the  gate  of  the  Temple,  knock  loudly  and 
demand  of  the  guard  that  his  children,  who  had  this  day 
been  taking  care  of  the  lantern,  should  be  allowed  to  come 
out.  On  this,  Toulan  will  bring  the  dauphin  and  Ma- 
dame Eoyale  in  their  changed  costume,  and  while  delivering 
them  over  to  the  supposed  lamplighter  he  will  scold  him 
soundly  for  not  taking  care  of  the  lanterns  himself,  but 
giving  it  to  the  children.  This  is  the  plan  whose  execu- 
tion is  possible  and  probable,  if  every  thing  is  strictly  fol- 
lowed. Before  the  affair  is  discovered,  there  will  be  at 
least  seven  hours'  advantage  and  the  royal  family  will  be 
able,  with  the  passes  already  secured  by  M.  Jarjayes,  to  be 
a  long  way  off  before  their  flight  will  be  discovered  by 
Tison.  In  a  secure  house,  whither  Toulan  will  lead  them, 
the  royal  family  will  find  simple  citizen's  clothing.  With- 
out exciting  any  stir,  and  accompanied  by  Messieurs  Jar- 
jayes and  Toulan,  they  will  reach  Normandy.  A  packet- 
boat  furnished  by  an  English  friend  lies  in  readiness  to 
receive  the  royal  family  and  take  them  to  their — '  " 

"Good-day,  Madame  Tison!"  cried  the  dauphin  loudly, 
"good-day,  my  dear  Madame  Tison!" 

Madame  Elizabeth  hastily  concealed  the  paper  in  her 
bosom,  and  Marie  Antoinette  had  scarcely  time  to  hide  the 
ball  of  thread  in  her  pocket,  when  Tison  appeared  upon 
the  threshold  of  the  door,  looked  with  her  sharp  lynx-eyes 
around,  and  then  fixed  them  upon  the  two  ladies. 

She  saw  that  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  display  her  ac- 
customed dignified  calmness,  and  that  Elizabeth's  pale 
cheeks  were  unusually  red. 

"  Something  is  going  on,"  said  the  spy  to  herself,  "  and 
what  does  it  mean  that  to-day  the  commissaries  are  not  in 
the  anteroom,  and  that  they  let  these  women  carry  on 
their  chattering  entirely  unwatched?" 

"Madame  has  been  reading?"  asked  Tisou,  subjecting 
every  object  upon  the  table  before  which  the  ladies  were 
sitting,  to  a  careful  scrutiny.  "  Madame  has  been  read- 
ing," she  repeated;  "I  heard  paper  rattling,  and  I  see  no 
book." 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE   ESCAPE.  363 

"  You  are  under  a  mistake,"  replied  Madame  Elizabeth, 
"  we  have  not  been  reading,  we  have  been  sewing;  but  sup- 
posing we  were  reading,  is  there  any  wrong  in  that?  Have 
they  made  any  law  that  forbids  that?" 

"No,"  answered  Tison,  "no — I  only  wondered  how  peo- 
ple could  rattle  paper  and  there  be  none  there,  but  all  the 
same — the  ladies  of  course  have  a  right  to  read,  and  we 
must  be  satisfied  with  that." 

And  she  went  out,  looking  right  and  left  like  a  hound 
on  the  scent,  and  searching  every  corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  must  see  what  kind  of  officials  we  have  here  to-day," 
said  Tison  to  herself,  slipping  through  the  little  side-door 
and  through  the  corridor;  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were 
Toulan  and  Lepitre  again,  for  every  time  when  they  two — 
right!"  she  ejaculated,  looking  through  the  outer  door, 
"right!  it  is  they,  Toulan  and  Lepitre.  I  must  see  what 
Simon's  wife  has  to  say  to  that." 

She  slipped  down  the  broad  staircase,  and  passed  through 
the  open  door  into  the  porter's  lodge.  Madame  Simon, 
one  of  the  most  savage  of  the  knitters,  had  shortly  returned 
from  the  guillotine,  and  was  sitting  upon  her  rush  chair, 
busily  counting  on  a  long  cotton  stocking  which  she  held 
in  her  hand. 

"  How  many  heads  to-day?"  asked  Tison. 

Madame  Simon  slowly  shook  her  head,  decorated  with  a 
white  knit  cap. 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  the  pains,"  she  said  dismally, — "  the 
machine  works  badly,  and  the  judges  are  neglectful.  Only 
five  cars  to-day,  and  on  every  one  only  seven  persons." 

"What!"  cried  Tison,  "  only  thirty-five  heads  to-day  in 
all?" 

"Yes,  only  thirty-five  heads,"  repeated  Madame  Simon, 
shaking  her  head ;  "  I  have  just  been  counting  on  my  stock- 
ing, and  I  find  only  thirty-five  seam-stitches,  for  every 
seam-stitch  means  a  head.  For  such  a  little  affair  we  have 
had  to  sit  six  hours  in  the  wet  and  cold  on  the  platform. 
The  machine  works  too  slowly,  1  say — altogether  too 
slowly.  The  judges  are  easy,  and  there  is  no  more  pleas- 
ure to  be  derived  from  the  executions." 

"They  must  be  stirred  up,"  said  Tison  with  a  fiendish 
look;  "your  husband  must  speak  with  his  friend,  citizen 
24 


364  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

Marat,  and  tell  him  that  his  best  friends  the  knitters,  and 
most  of  all,  Simon's  wife,  are  dissatisfied,  and  if  it  goes  on 
so,  the  women  will  rise  and  hurry  all  the  men  to  the  guil- 
lotine. That  will  stir  them  up,  for  they  do  respect  the 
knitters,  and  if  they  fear  the  devil,  they  fear  yet  more  hig 
proud  grandmother,  and  every  one  of  us  market-women 
and  knitters  is  the  devil's  grandmother." 

"  Yes,  they  do  respect  us  and  they  shall,"  said  Madame 
Simon,  setting  her  glistening  needles  in  motion  again,  and 
working  slowly  on  the  stocking;  "  I  will  myself  speak  with 
citizen  Marat,  and  believe  me,  I  will  fire  him  up,  and  then 
we  shall  have  better  play,  and  see  more  cars  driven  up  to 
the  guillotine.  We  must  keep  our  eyes  well  open,  and  de- 
nounce all  suspicious  characters." 

"  I  have  my  eyes  always  open,"  cried  Tison,  with  a  coarse 
laugh,  "  and  I  suspect  traitors  before  they  have  commit- 
ted any  thing.  There,  for  example,  are  the  two  officials, 
Toulan  and  Lepitre,  do  you  have  confidence  in  them?" 

"  I  have  no  confidence  in  them  whatever,  and  I  have 
never  had  any  confidence  in  them,"  answered  Madame 
Simon,  with  dignity,  and  setting  her  needles  in  more  rapid 
motion.  "  In  these  times  you  must  trust  nobody,  and 
least  of  all  those  who  are  so  very  earnest  to  keep  guard  over 
the  Austrian  woman;  for  a  true  republican  despises  the 
aristocracy  altogether  too  much  to  find  it  agreeable  to  be 
with  such  scum,  and  shows  it  as  much  as  he  can,  but 
Toulan  is  always  wanting  to  be  there.  Wait  a  moment, 
and  I  will  tell  you  how  many  times  Toulan  and  Lepitre 
have  kept  guard  the  present  month." 

She  drew  a  little  memorandum-book  from  her  reticule, 
which  hung  by  black  bands  from  her  brown  hairy  arm, 
and  turned  over  the  leaves.  "  There,  here  it  is,"  she  said. 
"  To-day  is  the  20th  of  February,  and  the  two  men  have 
already  kept  guard  eight  times  the  present  month.  That 
is  three  times  as  many  as  they  need  to  do.  Every  one  of 
the  officials  who  were  appointed  to  keep  guard  in  the  Tem- 
ple is  obliged  to  serve  only  once  a  week,  and  both  of  these 
traitors  are  now  here  for  the  eighth  time.  And  my  hus- 
band is  so  stupid  and  so  blinded  that  he  believes  this  prat- 
tler Toulan  when  he  tells  him  he  comes  here  merely  to  be 
with  citizen  Simon ;  but  they  cannot  come  round  me  with 


THE  PLAN   OF   THE   ESCAPE.  365 

their  talk ;  they  cannot  throw  dust  in  my  eyes.  I  shall 
keep  them  open,  wide  open,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  They  are  not  sitting  inside  in  the  antechamber  to-day," 
whispered  Tison,  "  but  outside  on  the  landing,  and  they 
have  closed  the  door  of  the  anteroom,  so  that  the  Austrian 
has  been  entirely  alone  and  unobserved  these  hours." 

"Alone!"  cried  the  knitter,  and  her  polished  needles 
struck  so  violently  against  each  other  that  you  could  hear 
them  click.  "My  husband  cannot  be  to  blame  for  that; 
Toulan  must  have  talked  him  into  it,  and  he  must  have  a 
reason  for  it;  he  must  have  a  reason,  and  if  it  is  only  from 
his  having  pity  upon  her,  that  is  enough  and  more  than 
enough  to  bring  him  under  suspicion  and  to  build  an  accusa- 
tion upon.  He  must  be  removed,  say  I.  There  shall  no  such 
compassionate  worms  as  he  creep  into  the  Temple.  I  will 
clear  them  out — I  will  clear  them  out  with  human  blood!" 

She  looked  so  devilish,  her  eyes  glared  so  with  such  a 
cruel  coldness,  and  such  a  fiendish  smile  played  upon  her 
pale,  thin  lips,  that  even  Madame  Tison  was  afraid  of  her, 
and  felt  as  if  a  cold,  poisonous  spider  was  creeping  slowly 
over  her  heart. 

"They  are  sitting  still  outside,  you  say?"  asked  Ma- 
dame Simon,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  they  are  still  sitting  outside  upon  the  landing, 
and  the  Austrian  woman  is  at  this  time  alone  unwatched 
with  her  brood,  and  she  will  be  alone  for  two  hours  yet, 
for  there  is  no  change  of  guard  till  then." 

"  That  is  true,  yes,  that  is  true,"  cried  the  knitter,  and 
her  nostrils  expanded  like  those  of  the  hyena  when  on  the 
scent  of  blood.  "  They  will  sit  up  there  two  hours  longer, 
playing  cards  and  singing  stupid  songs,  and  wheedling  my 
monkey  of  a  husband  with  their  flatteries,  making  him 
believe  that  they  love  him,  love  him  boundlessly,  and  they 
let  themselves  be  locked  into  the  Temple  for  his  sake, 
and — oh !  if  I  had  them  here,  I  would  strangle  them  with 
my  own  hands!  I  would  make  a  dagger  of  every  one  of 
my  knitting-needles  and  thrust  it  into  their  hearts!  But 
quiet,  quiet,"  she  continued  in  a  grumbling  tone,  "every 
thing  must  go  on  in  a  regular  way.  Will  you  take  my 
place  here  for  half  an  hour  and  guard  the  door?  I  have 
something  important  to  do,  something  very  important." 


366  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

"  It  will  be  a  very  great  honor,"  replied  Madame  Tison,  "  a 
very  great  honor  to  be  the  substitute  of  one  so  well  known  and 
respected  as  you  are,  of  whom  every  one  knows  that  she  is  the 
best  patriot  and  the  most  courageous  knitter, whose  eyelashes 
never  quiver,  and  who  can  calmly  go  on  with  her  stitches 
when  the  heads  fall  from  the  guillotine  into  the  basket." 

"  If  I  did  tremble,  and  my  eyelashes  did  quiver,  I  would 
dash  my  own  fists  into  my  eyes!"  said  Madame  Simon, 
with  her  hard  coarse  voice,  rising  and  throwing  her  thin, 
threadbare  cloak  over  her  shoulders.  "  If  I  found  a  spark 
of  sympathy  in  my  heart,  I  would  inundate  it  with  the 
blood  of  aristocrats  till  it  should  be  extinguished,  and  till 
that  should  be,  I  would  despise  and  hate  myself,  for  I 
should  be  not  only  a  bad  patriot,  but  a  bad  daughter  of  my 
unfortunate  father.  The  cursed  aristocrats  have  not  only 
brought  misery  on  our  country  and  people,  but  they  mur- 
dered my  dear  good  father.  Yes,  murdered  I  say.  They 
said  he  was  a  high  traitor.  And  do  you  know  why?  Be- 
cause he  told  aloud  the  nice  stories  about  the  Austrian 
woman,  who  was  then  our  queen,  which  had  been  whis- 
pered into  his  ear,  and  because  he  said  that  the  king  was  a 
mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  his  wife.  They  shot  my  good, 
brave  father  for  what  he  had  said,  and  which  they  called 
treason,  although  it  was  only  the  naked  truth.  Yet  I  will 
not  work  myself  into  a  passion  about  it,  and  I  will  only 
thank  God  that  that  time  is  past,  and  I  will  do  my  part 
that  it  shall  not  come  back.  And  that  is  why  we  must  be 
#wake  and  on  our  guard,  that  no  aristocrat  and  no  royalist 
Be  left,  but  that  they  all  be  guillotined,  all!  There,  take 
your  place  on  my  chair,  and  take  my  knitting-work.  Ah! 
if  it  could  speak  to  you  as  it  does  to  me — if  it  could  tell 
you  what  heads  we  two  have  seen  fall,  young  and  old,  hand- 
some, distinguished — it  would  be  fine  sport  for  you  and 
make  you  laugh.  But  good-by  just  now!  Keep  a  strict 
lookout!  I  shall  come  back  soon." 

And  she  did  come  back  soon,  this  worthy  woman,  with 
triumphant  bearing  and  flashing  eyes,  looking  as  the  cat 
looks  when  it  has  a  mouse  in  its  spft  velvety  paws,  and  is 
going  to  push  its  poisonous  claws  into  the  quivering  flesh. 
She  took  her  knitting-work  up  and  bade  Tison  to  go  up 
again  to  her  post. 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE    ESCAPE.  367 

"And  when  you  can,"  she  said,  "just  touch  the  Aus- 
trian woman  a  little,  and  pay  her  off  for  being  so  many 
hours  unwatched.  In  that  way  you  will  merit  a  reward 
from  the  people,  and  that  is  as  well  as  deserving  one  of 
God.  Provoke  her — provoke  the  proud  Austrian!" 

"It  is  very  hard  to  do  it,"  said  Tison,  sighing — "very 
hard,  I  assure  you,  for  the  Austrian  is  very  cold  and  mod- 
erate of  late.  Since  Louis  Capet  died,  the  widow  is  very 
much  changed,  and  now  she  is  so  uniform  in  her  temper 
that  it  seems  as  if  nothing  would  provoke  or  excite  her." 

"What  weak  and  tender  creatures  you  all  are!"  said 
Simon's  wife,  with  a  shrug.  "  It  is  very  plain  that  they 
fed  you  on  milk  when  you  were  young.  But  iny  mother 
nursed  me  with  hate.  I  was  scarcely  ten  years  when  they 
shot  my  father,  and  not  a  day  passed  after  that  without 
my  mother's  telling  me  that  we  must  avenge  his  murder 
on  the  whole  lineage  of  the  king.  I  had  to  swear  that  I 
would  do  it.  She  gave  me,  for  my  daily  food,  hatred 
against  the  aristocrats;  it  was  the  meat  to  my  sauce,  the 
sugar  to  my  coffee,  the  butter  to  my  bread !  I  lived  and 
throve  upon  it.  Look  at  me,  and  see  what  such  fare  has 
made  of  me!  Look  at  me!  I  am  not  yet  twenty-four 
years  old,  and  yet  I  have  the  appearance  of  an  old  woman, 
and  I  have  the  feeling  and  the  experience  of  an  old  woman! 
Nothing  moves  me  now,  and  the  only  thing  that  lives  and 
burns  in  my  heart  is  revenge.  Believe  me,  were  I  in  your 
place  I  should  know  how  to  exasperate  the  Austrian;  I 
should  succeed  in  drawing  out  her  tears." 

"  Well,  and  how  would  you  begin  ?  Eeally,  I  should  like 
to  know  how  to  bring  this  incarnation  of  pride  to  weeping." 

"Has  not  she  children?"  asked  Madame  Simon,  with  a 
horrible  calmness.  "  I  would  torture  and  provoke  the 
children,  and  that  would  soon  make  the  heart  of  the 
woman  humble  and  pliable.  Oh,  she  may  count  herself 
happy  that  I  am  not  in  your  place,  and  that  her  children 
are  not  under  my  tender  hands.  But  if  it  ever  happens 
that  I  can  lay  my  fingers  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  little 
wolves,  I  will  give  them  something  that  will  make  them 
cry  out,  and  make  the  old  wolf  howl  with  rage.  I  will 
show  her  as  little  favor  then  as  she  showed  when  my  poor 
mother  and  I  were  begging  for  my  dear  father !  Go  up, 


368  MAKIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

go  up  and  try  at  once.  Plague  the  children,  and  you  will 
see  that  that  will  make  the  Austrian  pliable." 

"  That  is  fine  talk,"  muttered  Tison,  as  she  went  up  the 
staircase,  "  but  she  has  no  children,  while  I  have  a  daugh- 
ter, a  dear,  good  daughter.  She  is  not  with  me,  but  with 
my  mother  in  Normandy,  because  she  can  be  taken  better 
care  of  there  than  here.  It  is  better  for  the  good  child 
that  she  has  not  gone  through  these  evil  days  full  of  blood 
and  grief  with  us.  But  I  am  always  thinking  of  her,  and 
when  one  of  these  two  children  here  looks  up  to  me  so 
gravely  with  great,  open  eyes,  it  always  makes  me  think  of 
my  Solonge.  She  has  exactly  such  large,  innocent  eyes, 
and  that  touches  my  heart  so  that  I  cannot  be  harsh  with 
the  children.  They,  of  course,  are  not  at  all  to  blame  for 
having  such  bad,  miserable  parents,  who  have  treated  the 
people  shamefully,  and  made  them  poor  and  wretched. 
No,  they  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  I  cannot  be 
severe  with  the  children,  for  I  am  always  thinking  of  my 
little  Solonge!  I  will  provoke  the  Austrian  woman  as 
much  as  I  can,  but  not  the  children — no,  not  the  children !" 

Meanwhile,  Mistress  Simon  had  taken  her  place  upon 
the  chair  near  the  open  door  in  the  porter's  lodge,  and  sat 
there  with  her  cold,  immovable  face  staring  into  empty 
space  with  her  great  coal-black,  glistening  eyes,  while  her 
hands  were  busily  flying,  making  the  polished  knitting- 
needles  click  against  each  other. 

She  was  still  sitting  there,  when  at  last  her  husband 
came  down  the  stairs  to  open  the  outer  door  of  the  Temple, 
conduct  his  friends  past  the  inner  court,  and  to  bring  back 
the  two  officials  who  were  to  keep  guard  during  the  night. 

They  passed  the  knitter  with  a  friendly  salutation  and  a 
bit  of  pleasantry — Toulan  stopping  a  moment  to  ask  the 
woman  after  her  welfare,  and  to  say  a  few  smooth  words  to 
her  about  her  courage  and  her  great  force  of  character. 

She  listened  quietly,  let  him  go  on  with  his  talk,  and 
when  he  had  ended,  slowly  raised  her  great  eyes  from  her 
knitting  to  him. 

"You  are  a  traitor,"  she  said,  with  coldness,  and  with- 
out any  agitation.  "  Yes,  you  are  a  traitor,  and  you,  too, 
will  have  your  turn  at  the  guillotine!" 

Toulan  paled  a  little,  but  collected  himself  immediately, 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE   ESCAPE.  369 

took  leave  of  the  knitter  with  a  smile,  and  hastened  after 
the  officials,  who  were  waiting  for  him  at  the  open  door — 
the  two  who  were  to  hold  the  watch  during  the  night  hav- 
ing already  entered. 

Simon  closed  the  door  after  them,  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  them,  and  then  went  into  his  lodge  to  join  his 
rigid  better  half. 

"  This  has  been  a  pleasant  afternoon,  and  it  is  a  great 
pity  that  it  is  gone,  for  I  have  had  a  very  good  time.  We 
have  played  cards,  sung,  smoked,  and  Toulan  has  made 
jokes  and  told  stories,  and  made  much  fun.  I  always  won- 
der where  he  gets  so  many  fine  stories,  and  he  tells  them 
so  well  that  I  could  hear  him  day  and  night.  Now  that  he 
is  gone,  it  seems  tedious  and  dull  enough  here.  Well,  we 
must  comfort  ourselves  that  to-morrow  will  come  by  and 

by." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  his  wife,  sternly. 
"  What  sort  of  a  day  do  you  expect  to-morrow  to  be?" 

"  A  pleasant  day,  my  dear  Heloise,  for  Citizen  Toulan 
will  have  the  watch  again.  I  begged  him  so  long,  that  he 
at  last  promised  to  exchange  with  Citizen  Pelletan,  whose 
turn  regularly  comes  to-morrow.  Pelletan  is  not  well,  and 
it  would  be  very  hard  for  him  to  sit  up  there  all  day,  and, 
besides,  he  would  be  dreadfully  stupid.  It  is  a  great  deal 
pleasanter  to  have  Toulan  here  with  his  jokes  and  jolly 
stories,  and  so  I  begged  him  to  come  and  take  Pelletan's 
place.  He  is  going  to  accommodate  me  and  come." 

His  wife  did  not  answer  a  word,  but  broke  out  in  a  burst 
of  shrill,  mocking  laughter,  and  with  her  angry  black  eyes 
she  scrutinized  her  husband's  red,  bloated  face,  as  though 
she  were  reading  him  through  and  through. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  asked,  angrily.  "  I 
would  like  to  be  beyond  hearing  when  you  give  way  in  that 
style.  What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"  Because  I  wonder  at  you,  you  Jack,"  she  answered 
sharply.  "  Because  you,  are  determined  to  make  an  ass  of 
yourself,  and  let  dust  be  thrown  in  your  eyes,  and  put 
yourself  at  the  disposal  of  every  one  who  soaps  you  over 
with  smooth  words." 

"Come,"  said  Simon,  "none  of  that  coarseness!  and  if 
you — " 


370  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"Hist!"  she  answered,  commandingly.  "I  will  show 
you  at  once  that  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  and  that  you 
are  making  an  ass  of  yourself,  or  at  least  that  you  are  on 
the  point  of  doing  so.  Now,  listen." 

The  knitter  laid  her  work  aside,  and  had  a  long  con- 
versation in  a  whisper  with  her  husband.  When  it  ended, 
Simon  stood  up  wearing  a  dark  look,  and  walked  slowly 
backward  and  forward  in  the  little  room.  Then  he  stopped 
and  shook  his  fist  threateningly  at  the  room  above.  "  She 
shall  pay  for  this,"  he  muttered — "  by  God  in  heaven!  she 
shall  pay  for  this.  She  is  a  good-for-nothing  seducer! 
Even  in  prison  she  does  not  leave  off  coquetting,  and  flirt- 
ing, and  turning  the  heads  of  the  men !  It  is  disgraceful, 
thoroughly  disgraceful,  and  she  shall  pay  for  it!  I  will 
soon  find  means  to  have  my  revenge  on  her!" 

During  the  whole  evening  Mistress  Tison  did  not  leave 
her  place  behind  the  glass  door  for  a  moment,  and  at  each 
stolen  glance  which  the  queen  cast  thither  she  always  en- 
countered the  malicious,  glaring  eyes  of  the  keeper,  directed 
at  her  with  an  impudent  coolness. 

At  last  came  the  hour  of  going  to  bed — the  hour  to 
which  the  queen  looked  impatiently  forward.  At  night 
she  was  at  least  alone  and  unguarded.  After  the  death  of 
the  king,  it  had  been  found  superfluous  to  trouble  the 
officials  with  the  wearisome  night-watches,  and  they  were 
satisfied,  after  darkness  had  set  in  and  the  candles  were 
lighted,  with  locking  the  three  doors  which  led  to  the  in- 
ner rooms. 

Did  Marie  Antoinette  weep  and  moan  at  night,  did  she 
talk  with  her  sister,  did  she  walk  disconsolately  up  and 
down  her  room? — the  republic  granted  her  the  privilege. 
She  could,  during  the  night  at  least,  have  a  few  hours  of 
freedom  and  of  solitude. 

But  during  the  night  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  weep  or 
moan;  this  night  her  thoughts  were  not  directed  to  the 
sad  past,  but  to  the  future;' for  the  first  ray  of  hope  which 
had  fallen  upon  her  path  for  a  long  time  now  encountered 
her. 

"To  escape,  to  be  free!"  she  said,  and  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  flitted  over  her  face.  "  Can  you  believe  it?  Do  you 
consider  it  possible,  sister?" 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE   ESCAPE.  371 

"  I  should  like  to  believe  it,"  whispered  Elizabeth,  "  but 
there  is  something  in  my  heart  that  reminds  me  of  Va- 
rennes,  and  I  only  pray  to  God  that  He  would  give  us 
strength  to  bear  all  the  ills  they  inflict  upon  us.  We  must, 
above  all  things,  keep  our  calmness  and  steadfastness,  and 
be  prepared  for  the  worst  as  well  as  the  best." 

"Yes,  you  are  right,  we  must  do  that,"  said  Marie  An- 
toinette, collecting  herself.  "  When  one  has  suffered  as 
we  have,  it  is  almost  more  difficult  to  hope  for  good  for- 
tune than  to  prepare  for  new  terrors.  I  will  compel  my- 
self to  be  calm.  I  will  read  Toulan's  plan  once  more,  and 
will  impress  it  word  for  word  upon  my  memory,  so  as  to 
burn  the  dangerous  sheet  as  soon  as  possible." 

"And  while  you  are  doing  that  I  will  unwind  the  ball 
that  Toulan  brought  us,  and  which  certainly  contains 
something  heavy,"  said  the  princess. 

"  What  a  grand,  noble  heart!  what  a  lofty  character  has 
our  friend  Toulan!"  whispered  the  queen.  "His  courage 
is  inexhaustible,  his  fidelity  is  invincible,  and  he  is  entirely 
unselfish.  How  often  have  I  implored  him  to  express  one 
wish  to  me  that  I  might  gratify,  or  to  allow  me  to  give 
him  a  draft  of  some  amount !  He  is  not  to  be  shaken — he 
wants  nothing,  he  will  take  nothing.  Ah,  Elizabeth,  he 
is  the  first  friend,  of  all  who  ever  drew  toward  me,  who 
made  no  claims  and  was  contented  with  a  kind  word. 
When  I  implored  him  yesterday  to  tell  me  in  what  way  I 
could  do  him  a  service,  he  said :  '  If  you  want  to  make  me 
happy,  regard  me  always  as  your  most  devoted  and  faithful 
servant,  and  give  me  a  name  that  you  give  to  no  one  be- 
sides. Call  me  Fidele,  and  if  you  want  to  give  me  another 
remembrancer  than  that  which  will  always  live  in  my  heart, 
present  me,  as  the  highest  token  of  your  favor,  with  the 
little  gold  smelling-bottle  which  I  saw  you  use  in  the 
Logograph  box  on  that  dreadful  day.'  I  gave  him  the 
trinket  at  once.  He  kneeled  down  in  order  to  receive  it, 
and  when  he  kissed  my  hand  his  hot  tears  fell  upon  it. 
Ah,  Elizabeth,  no  one  of  those  to  whom  in  the  days  of  our 
happiness  I  gave  jewels,  and  to  whom  I  gave  hundreds  of 
thousands,  cherished  for  me  so  warm  thanks  as  Toulan — 
no,  as  Fidele — for  the  poor,  insignificant  little  remem- 
brancer." 


372  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

"  God  is  good  and  great,"  said  the  princess,  who,  while 
the  queen  was  speaking,  was  busily  engaged  in  unwinding 
the  thread ;  "  in  order  that  we  might  not  lose  faith  in 
humanity  and  confidence  in  man,  He  sent  us  in  His  mercy 
this  noble,  true-hearted  one,  whose  devotion,  disinterested- 
ness, and  fidelity  were  to  be  our  compensation  for  all  the 
sad  and  heart-rending  experiences  which  we  have  endured. 
And,  therefore,  for  the  sake  of  this  one  noble  man  let  us 
pardon  the  many  from  whom  we  have  received  only  injury ; 
for  it  says  in  the  Bible  that,  for  the  sake  of  one  righteous 
man,  many  sinners  shall  be  forgiven,  and  Touian  is  a  right- 
eous man." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  righteous  man,  blessings  on  him!"  whis- 
pered the  queen.  Then  she  took  the  paper  in  her  hand, 
and  began  to  read  the  contents  softly,  repeating  every  sen- 
tence to  herself,  and  imprinting  every  one  of  those  hope- 
bringing  words  upon  her  memory;  and  while  she  read,  her 
poor,  crushed  heart  gradually  began  to  beat  with  firmer 
confidence,  and  to  embrace  the  possibility  of  realizing  the 
plan  of  Touian  and  finding  freedom  in  flight. 

During  this  time  Princess  Elizabeth  had  unwound  the 
thread  of  the  ball,  and  brought  to  light  a  little  packet  en- 
veloped in  paper. 

"  Take  it,  my  dear  Antoinette,"  she  said,  "  it  is  addressed 
to  you." 

Marie  Antoinette  took  it  and  carefully  unfolded  the 
paper.  Then  she  uttered  a  low,  carefully-suppressed  cry, 
and,  sinking  upon  her  knees,  pressed  it  with  its  contents 
to  her  lips. 

"  What  is  it,  sister?"  cried  the  princess,  hurrying  to 
her.  "  What  does  Touian  demand?" 

The  queen  gave  the  paper  to  the  princess.  "  Read,"  she 
said — "  read  it,  sister. " 

Elizabeth  read :  "  Your  majesty  wished  to  possess  the 
relics  which  King  Louis  left  to  you.  They  consist  of  the 
wedding-ring  of  his  majesty,  his  little  seal,  and  the  hair 
which  the  king  himself  cut  off.  These  three  things  lay  on 
the  chimney-piece  in  the  closed  sitting-room  of  the  king. 
The  supervisor  of  the  Temple  took  them  from  Clery's  hand, 
to  whom  the  king  gave  them,  and  put  them  under  seal. 
I  have  succeeded  in  getting  into  the  sitting-room ;  I  have 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE    ESCAPE.  373 

opened  the  sealed  packet,  taken  out  the  sacred  relics,  put 
articles  of  similar  character  in  their  place,  and  sealed  it  up 
again.  With  this  letter  are  the  relics  which  belong  to  your 
majesty,  and  I  swear  by  all  that  is  sacred  and  dear  to  me — • 
I  swear  by  the  head  of  my  queen,  that  they  are  the  true 
articles  which  the  blessed  martyr,  King  Louis  XVI.,  con- 
veyed to  his  wife  in  his  testament.  I  have  stolen  them  for 
the  exalted  heir  of  the  crown,  and  I  shall  one  day  glory  in 
the  theft  before  the  throne  of  God."  * 

"  See,  Elizabeth,"  said  the  queen,  unfolding  the  little 
things,  dach  one  of  which  was  carefully  wrapped  in  paper — 
"  see,  there  is  his  wedding-ring.  There  on  the  inside  are 
the  four  letters,  'M.  A.  A.  A.,  19th  April,  1770.'  The 
day  of  our  marriage! — a  day  of  joy  for  Austria  as  well  as 
for  France !  Then — but  I  will  not  think  of  it.  Let  me 
look  further.  Here  is  the  seal !  The  cornelian  engraved 
on  two  sides.  Here  on  one  side  the  French  arms ;  as  you 
turn  the  stone,  the  portrait  of  our  son  the  Dauphin  of 
France,  with  his  helmet  on  his  head.  Oh!  my  son,  my 
poor  dear  child,  will  your  loved  head  ever  bear  any  other 
ornament  than  a  martyr's  crown ;  will  God  grant  you  to 
wear  the  helmet  of  the  warrior,  and  to  battle  for  your 
rights  and  your  throne?  How  pleased  my  husband  was 
when  on  his  birthday  I  brought  him  this  seal !  how  tenderly 
his  looks  rested  upon  the  portrait  of  his  son,  his  successor! 
and  now — oh,  now!  King  Louis  XVI.  cruelly,  shame- 
fully murdered,  and  he  who  ought  to  be  the  King  of 
France,  Louis  XVII.,  is  nothing  but  a  poor,  imprisoned 
child — a  king  without  a  crown,  without  hope,  without  a 
future!" 

"No,  no,  Antoinette,"  whispered  Elizabeth,  who  had 
kneeled  before  the  queen  and  had  tenderly  put  her  arms 
around  her — "  no,  Antoinette,  do  not  say  that  your  son  has 
no  hope  and  no  future.  Build  upon  God,  hope  that  the 
undertaking  which  we  are  to-morrow  to  execute  will  lead 
to  a  fortunate  result,  that  we  shall  flee  from  here,  that  we 
shall  be  free,  that  we  shall  be  able  to  reach  England.  Oh, 
yes,  let  us  hope  that  Toulan's  fine  and  bold  plan  will  suc- 
ceed, and  then  it  may  one  day  be  that  the  son  of  my  dear 
brother,  grown  to  be  a  young  man,  may  put  the  helmet  on 

*Goncourt,  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  p.  284. 


374  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

his  head,  gird  himself  with  the  sword,  reconquer  the  throne 
of  his  fathers,  and  take  possession  of  it  as  King  Louis  XVII. 
Therefore  let  us  hope,  sister." 

"  Yes,  therefore  let  us  hope"  whispered  the  queen,  dry- 
ing her  tears.  "  And  here  at  last,"  she  continued,  opening 
the  remaining  paper,  "  here  is  the  third  relic,  the  hair  of 
the  king! — the  only  thing  which  is  left  us  of  the  martyr 
king,  the  unfortunate  husband  of  an  unfortunate  wife,  the 
pitiable  king  of  a  most  pitiable  people!  Ob,  my  king! 
they  have  laid  your  poor  head  that  bore  this  white  hair — 
they  have  laid  it  upon  the  scaffold,  and  the  axe,  the  dread- 
ful axe — " 

The  queen  uttered  a  loud  shriek  of  horror,  sprang  up, 
and  raised  both  her  hands  in  conjuration  to  Heaven,  while 
a  curse  just  trembled  on  her  lips.  But  Princess  Elizabeth 
threw  herself  into  her  arms,  and  pressed  on  the  cold, 
quivering  lips  of  the  queen  a  long,  fervent  kiss. 

"For  God's  sake,  sister,"  she  whispered,  "speak  softly. 
If  Tison  heard  your  cry,  we  are  lost.  Hush !  it  seems  to 
me  I  hear  steps,  hide  the  things.  Let  us  hurry  into  bed. 
Oh,  for  God's  sake,  quick!" 

She  huddled  the  papers  together,  and  put  them  hastily 
into  her  bosom,  while  Marie  Antoinette,  gathering  up  the 
relics,  dashed  into  her  bed. 

"She  is  coming,"  whispered  Elizabeth,  as  she  slipped 
into  her  bed.  "  We  must  pretend  to  be  asleep." 

And  in  fact  Princess  Elizabeth  was  right.  The  glass- 
door,  which  led  from  the  sleeping-room  of  the  children  to 
the  little  corridor,  and  from  there  to  the  chamber  of  Mis- 
tress Tison,  was  slowly  and  cautiously  opened,  and  she 
came  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand  into  the  children's  room. 
She  stood  near  the  door,  listening  and  spying  around.  In 
the  beds  of  the  children  she  could  hear  the  long-drawn, 
calm  breathing,  which  indicated  peaceful  slumbers;  and 
in  the  open,  adjoining  apartment,  in  which  the  two  ladies 
slept,  nothing  was  stirring. 

"  But  I  did  hear  a  sound  plainly,"  muttered  Tison.  "  I 
was  awaked  by  a  loud  cry,  and  when  I  sat  up  in  bed  I  heard 
people  talking." 

She  stole  to  the  beds  of  the  children,  and  let  the  light 
fall  upon  their  faces.  "  They  are  sleeping  soundly  enough, " 


THE   PLAN  OF  THE   ESCAPE.  375 

she  muttered,  "  they  have  not  cried  or  spoken,  but  we  will 
see  how  it  is  in  the  other  room."  Slowly,  with  the  lamp 
in  her  hand,  she  crept  into  the  neighboring  apartment. 
The  two  ladies  lay  motionless  upon  their  beds,  closing  their 
eyes  quickly  when  Mistress  Tison  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
praying  to  God  for  courage  and  steadfastness. 

Tison  went  first  to  the  bed  of  Princess  Elizabeth  and  let 
the  lamp  fall  full  upon  her  face.  The  glare  seemed  to 
awaken  her.  "What  is  it?"  she  cried,  "what  has  hap- 
pened? sister,  what  has  happened?  where  are  you,  Marie 
Antoinette?" 

"Here,  here  I  am,  Elizabeth,"  cried  the  queen,  rising 
suddenly  up  in  bed,  as  if  awakened.  "  Why  do  you  call 
me,  and  who  is  here?" 

"It  is  I,"  muttered  Tison,  angrily.  "That  is  the  way 
if  one  has  a  bad  conscience !  One  is  startled  then  with  the 
slightest  sound." 

"We  have  no  bad  conscience,"  said  Elizabeth,  gently, 
"  but  you  know  that  if  we  are  awakened  from  sleep  we  cry 
out  easily,  and  we  might  be  thinking  that  some  one  was 
waking  us  to  bring  us  happy  tidings." 

"  I  hope  so,"  cried  Tison,  with  a  scornful  laugh,  "  Happy 
news  for  you !  that  means  unhappy  and  sad  news  for  France 
and  for  the  French  people.  No,  thank  God!  I  did  not 
waken  you  to  bring  you  any  good  news." 

"Well,  "said  the  queen,  gently,  "  tell  us  why  you  have 
wakened  us  and  what  you  have  to  communicate  to  us." 

"  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  communicate  to  you,"  growled 
Tison,  "  and  you  know  best  whether  I  woke  you  or  you 
were  already  awake,  talking  and  crying  aloud.  Hist!  it  is 
not  at  all  necessary  that  you  answer,  I  know  well  enough 
that  you  are  capable  of  lying.  I  tell  you  my  ears  are  open 
and  my  eyes  too.  I  let  nothing  escape  me ;  you  have  talked 
and  you  have  cried  aloud,  and  if  it  occurs  again  I  shall  re- 
port it  to  the  supervisor  and  have  a  watch  put  here  in  the 
night  again,  that  the  rest  of  us  may  have  a  little  quiet  in 
the  night-time,  and  not  have  to  sleep  like  the  hares,  with 
our  eyes  open." 

"  But,"  said  the  princess  gently,  "but  dear  woman — " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  Tison,  commandingly,  "I  am  not 
your  'dear  woman,'  I  am  the  wife  of  Citizen  Tison,  and  I 


376  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

want  none  of  your  confidence,  for  confidence  from  such 
persons  as  you  are,  might  easily  bring  me  to  the  scaffold." 

She  now  passed  through  the  whole  room  with  her  slow, 
stealthy  tread,  let  the  light  fall  upon  every  article  of  fur- 
niture and  the  floor,  examined  all  the  objects  that  lay  upon 
the  table,  and  then,  after  one  last  threatening  look  at  the 
beds  of  the  two  ladies,  went  slowly  out.  She  stopped  again 
at  the  cribs  of  the  children,  and  looked  at  them  with  a 
touch  of  gentleness.  "  How  quietly  they  sleep!"  she  whis- 
pered. "  They  lie  there  exactly  as  they  lay  before.  One 
would  think  they  were  smiling  in  their  sleep — I  suppose 
they  are  playing  with  angels.  I  should  like  to  know  how 
angels  come  into  this  old,  horrid  Temple,  and  what  Simon's 
wife  would  say  if  she  knew  they  came  in  here  at  night 
without  her  permission.  See,  see,"  she  continued,  "the 
boy  is  laughing  again,  and  spreading  out  his  hands,  as  if 
he  wanted  to  catch  the  angels.  Ah !  I  should  like  to  know 
if  my  dear  little  Solange  is  sleeping  as  soundly  as  these  chil- 
dren, and  whether  she  smiles  in  her  sleep  and  plays  with 
angels;  I  should  like  to  know  if  she  dreams  of  her  parents, 
my  dear  little  Solange,  and  whether  she  sometimes  sees  her 
poor  mother,  who  loves  her  so  and  yearns  toward  her  so 
tenderly  that — "  * 

She  could  not  go  on ;  tears  extinguished  her  utterance, 
and  she  hastened  out,  to  silence  her  longings  on  the  pillow 
of  her  bed. 

The  ladies  listened  a  long  time  in  perfect  silence;  then, 
when  every  thing  was  still  again,  they  raised  themselves  up 
softly,  and  began  to  talk  to  each  other  in  the  faintest  of 
whispers,  and  to  make  their  final  preparations  for  the  flight 
of  the  morrow.  They  then  rose  and  drew  from  the  various 
hiding-places  the  garments  which  they  were  to  use,  placed 
the  various  suits  together,  and  then  tried  to  put  them  on. 
A  fearful,  awful  picture,  such  as  a  painter  of  hell,  such  as 

*  This  Mistress  Tison.  the  cruel  keeper  of  the  queen,  soon  after  this  fell 
into  lunacy,  owing  both  to  her  longings  after  her  daughter  and  her  com- 
punctions of  conscience  for  her  treatment  of  the  queen.  The  first  token  of 
her  insanity  was  her  falling  upon  her  knees  before  Marie  Antoinette,  and 
begging  pardon  for  all  the  pain  she  had  occasioned,  and  amid  floods  of  tears 
accusing  herself  as  the  one  who  would  be  answerable  for  the  death  of  the 
queen.  She  then  fell  into  such  dreadful  spasms,  that  four  men  were  scarcely 
aoleto  hold  her.  They  carried  her  into  the  Hfltel  Dieu,  where  she  died  after 
two  days  of  the  most  dreadful  sufferings  and  bitter  reproaches  of  herself. — 
See  Goncourt,  p.  280. 


THE   PLAN   OF   THE   ESCAPE.  377 

Breugel  could  not  surpass  in  horror ! — a  queen  and  a  prin- 
cess, two  tender,  pale,  harmless  women,  busied,  deep  in  the 
night,  as  if  dressing  for  a  masquerade,  in  transforming 
themselves  into  those  very  officials  who  had  led  the  king  to 
the  scaffold,  and  who,  with  their  pitiless  iron  hands,  were 
detaining  the  royal  family  in  prison ! 

There  they  stood,  a  queen,  a  princess,  clad  in  the  coarse, 
threadbare  garments  of  republican  officials,  the  tri-colored 
sashes  of  the  "  one  indivisible  republic"  around  their  bodies, 
their  heads  covered  with  the  three-cornered  hats,  on  which 
the  tri-colored  cockade  glittered.  They  stood  and  viewed 
each  other  with  sad  looks  and  heavy  sighs.  Ah,  what 
bright,  joyous  laughter  would  have  sprung  from  the  lips  of 
the  queen  in  the  days  of  her  happiness,  if  she  had  wanted 
to  hide  her  beauty  in  such  attire  for  some  pleasant  mas- 
querade at  Trianon !  What  charming  sport  it  would  have 
been  then  and  there !  How  would  her  friends  and  cour- 
tiers have  laughed !  How  they  would  have  admired  the 
queen  in  her  original  costume,  which  might  well  have  been 
thought  to  belong  to  the  realm  of  dreams  and  fantasies! 
A  tri-colored  cockade — a  figment  of  the  brain — a  tri- 
colored  sash — a  merry  dream !  The  lilies  rule  over  France, 
and  will  rule  forever! 

No  laughter  resounded  in  the  desolate  room,  scantily 
lighted  with  the  dim  taper — no  laughter  as  the  queen  and 
the  princess  put  on  their  strange,  fearful  attire.  It  was 
no  masquerade,  but  a  dreadful,  horrible  reality;  and  as 
they  looked  at  each  other  wearing  the  costume  of  revolu- 
tionists, tears  started  from  the  eyes  of  the  queen;  the 
princess  folded  her  hands  and  prayed;  and  she  too  could 
not  keep  back  the  drops  that  slowly  coursed  over  her 
cheeks. 

The  lilies  of  France  are  faded  and  torn  from  the  ground ! 
From  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries  waved  the  tri -color  of  the 
republic,  and  in  the  palace  of  the  former  Knights  Tem- 
plars is  a  pale,  sad  woman,  with  gray  hair  and  sunken  eyes, 
a  broken  heart,  and  a  bowed  form.  This  pale,  sad  shadow 
of  the  past  is  Marie  Antoinette,  once  the  Queen  of  France, 
the  renowned  beauty,  the  first  woman  in  a  great  kingdom, 
now  the  widow  of  an  executed  man,  she  herself  probably 
with  one  foot — 


378  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

No,  no,  she  will  be  saved !  God  has  sent  her  a  deliverer, 
a  friend,  and  this  friend,  this  helper  in  her  need,  has 
made  every  thing  ready  for  her  flight. 


CHAPTEK    XXIII. 

THE   SEPARATION. 

SLOWLY  and  heavily  the  hours  of  the  next  day  rolled  on. 
Where  was  Toulan?  Why  did  he  not  come?  The  queen 
waited  for  him  the  whole  of  that  long,  dreadful  day  in 
feverish  expectation.  She  listened  to  every  sound,  to  every 
approaching  step,  to  every  voice  that  echoed  in  the  corridor. 
At  noon  Toulan  had  purposed  to  come  to  take  his  post  as 
guard.  At  six,  when  the  time  of  lighting  the  lamps 
should  arrive,  the  disguises  were  to  be  put  on.  At  seven 
the  carefully  and  skilfully-planned  flight  was  to  be  made. 

The  clock  in  the  tower  of  the  Temple  had  already  struck 
four.  Toulan  had  not  yet  come,  and  the  guards  of  the 
day  had  not  yet  been  relieved.  They  had  had  a  little  leis- 
ure at  noon  for  dinner,  and  during  the  interim  Simon  and 
Tison  were  on  guard,  and  had  kept  the  queen  on  the  rack 
with  their  mockery  and  their  abusive  words.  In  order  to 
avoid  the  language  and  the  looks  of  these  men,  she  had 
fled  into  the  children's  room,  to  whom  the  princess,  in  her 
trustful  calmness  and  unshaken  equanimity,  was  assigning 
them  lessons.  Marie  Antoinette  wanted  to  find  protec- 
tion here  from  the  dreadful  anxiety  that  tortured  her,  as 
well  as  from  the  ribald  jests  and  scurrility  of  her  keep- 
ers. But  Mistress  Tison  was  there,  standing  near  the 
glass  window,  gazing  in  with  a  malicious  grin,  and  working 
in  her  wonted,  quick  way  upon  the  long  stocking,  and 
knitting,  knitting,  so  that  you  could  hear  the  needles  click 
together. 

The  queen  could  not  give  way  to  a  word  or  a  look.  That 
would  have  created  suspicion,  and  would,  perhaps,  have 
caused  an  examination  to  be  made.  She  had  to  bear  all  in 
silence,  she  had  to  appear  indifferent  and  calm ;  she  had  to 
give  pleasant  answers  to  the  dauphin's  innocent  questions, 
and  even  compel  a  smile  to  her  lips  when  the  child,  read- 


THE   SEPARATION.  379 

ing  in  her  looks,  by  the  instinct  of  love,  her  great  excite- 
ment, tried  to  cheer  her  up  with  pleasant  words. 

It  struck  five,  and  still  Toulan  did  not  come.  A  chill 
crept  over  her  heart,  and  in  the  horror  which  filled  her  she 
first  became  conscious  how  much  love  of  life  still  survived 
in  her,  and  how  intensely  she  had  hoped  to  find  a  possibil- 
ity of  escape. 

Only  one  last  hour  of  hope  left !  If  it  should  strike  six, 
and  he  should  not  come,  all  would  be  lost!  The  doors  of 
her  prison  would  be  closed  forever — never  opening  again 
excepting  to  allow  Marie  Antoinette  to  pass  to  the  guillotine. 

Mistress  Tison  had  gone,  and  her  cold,  mocking  face 
was  no  longer  visible  behind  the  glass  door.  The  guards 
in  the  anteroom  had  also  gone,  and  had  closed  the  doors 
behind  them.  The  queen  was,  therefore,  safe  from  being 
watched  at  least!  She  could  fall  upon  her  knees,  she  could 
raise  her  hands  to  God  and  wrestle  with  Him  in  speechless 
prayer  for  pity  and  deliverance.  She  could  call  her  chil- 
dren to  herself,  and  press  them  to  her  heart,  and  whisper 
to  them  that  they  must  be  composed  if  they  should  see 
something  strange,  and  not  wonder  if  they  should  have  to 
put  on  clothing  that  they  were  not  accustomed  to. 

"Mamma,"  asked  the  dauphin,  in  a  whisper,  "are  we 
going  to  Varennes  again?" 

The  queen  shuddered  in  her  inmost  soul  at  this  question, 
and  hid  her  quivering  face  on  the  faithful  breast  of  the 
princess. 

"  Oh,  sister,  I  am  suffocating  with  anxiety,"  she  said. 
"  I  feel  that  this  hour  is  to  decide  the  lives  of  us  all,  and 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  Death  were  already  stretching  out  his 
cold  hand  toward  me.  We  are  lost,  and  my  son,  my  un- 
happy son,  will  never  wear  any  other  than  the  martyr's 
crown,  and — " 

The  queen  was  silent,  for  just  then  the  tower-clock  began 
to  strike,  slowly,  peacefully,  the  hour  of  six !  The  critical 
moment!  The  lamplight  must  come  now!  If  it  were 
Toulan,  they  might  be  saved.  Some  unforeseen  occurrence 
might  have  prevented  his  coming  before;  he  might  have 
borrowed  the  suit  of  the  bribed  lamplighter  in  order  to 
come  to  them.  There  was  hope  still — one  last,  pale  ray  of 
hope! 

25 


380  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Steps  upon  the  corridor !     Voices  that  are  audible ! 

The  queen,  breathless,  with  both  hands  laid  upon  her 
heart,  which  was  one  instant  still,  and  then  beat  with  re- 
doubled rapidity,  listened  with  strained  attention  to  the 
opening  of  the  door  of  the  anteroom.  Princess  Elizabeth 
approached  her,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  queen's  shoulder. 
The  two  children,  terrified  by  some  cause  which  they  could 
not  comprehend,  clung  to  the  hand  and  the  body  of  their 
mother,  and  gazed  anxiously  at  the  door. 

The  steps  came  nearer,  the  voices  became  louder.  The 
door  of  the  anteroom  is  opened — and  there  is  the  lamp- 
lighter. But  it  is  not  Toulan — no,  not  Toulan !  It  is  the 
man  who  comes  every  day,  and  the  two  children  are  with 
him  as  usual. 

A  heavy  sigh  escaped  from  the  lips  of  the  queen,  and, 
throwing  her  arms  around  the  dauphin  with  a  convulsive 
motion,  she  murmured: 

"  My  son,  oh,  my  dear  son !  May  God  take  my  life  if 
He  will  but  spare  thine!" 

Where  was  Toulan?  Where  had  he  been  all  this  dread- 
ful day?  Where  was  Fiddle  the  brave,  the  indefatigable? 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  the  flight,  he 
left  his  house,  taking  a  solemn  leave  of  his  Marguerite. 
At  this  parting  hour  he  told  her  for  the  first  time  that  he 
was  going  to  enter  upon  the  great  and  exalted  undertaking 
of  freeing  the  queen  and  her  children,  or  of  dying  for 
them.  His  true,  brave  young  wife  had  suppressed  her 
tears  and  her  sighs  to  give  him  her  blessing,  and  to  tell 
him  that  she  would  pray  for  him,  and  that  if  he  should 
perish  in  the  service  of  the  queen,  she  would  die  too,  in 
order  to  be  united  with  him  above. 

Toulan  kissed  the  beaming  eyes  of  his  Marguerite  with 
deep  feeling,  thanked  her  for  her  true-hearted  resignation, 
and  told  her  that  he  had  never  loved  her  so  much  as  in 
this  hour  when  he  was  leaving  her  to  meet  his  death,  it 
might  be,  in  the  service  of  another  lady. 

"  At  this  hour  of  parting,"  he  said,  "  I  will  give  you  the 
dearest  and  most  sacred  thing  that  I  possess.  Take  this 
little  gold  smelling-bottle.  The  queen  gave  it  to  me,  and 
upon  the  bit  of  paper  that  lies  within  it  Marie  Antoinette 
wrote  with  her  own  hand,  'Remembrancer  for  Fidele. ' 


THE   SEPARATION.  381 

Fidele  is  the  title  of  honor  which  my  queen  has  given  me 
for  the  little  service  which  I  have  been  able  to  do  for  her. 
I  leave  this  little  gift  for  you  as  that  which,  next  to  your 
love,  is  the  most  sacred  and  precious  thing  to  me  on  earth. 
If  I  die,  preserve  it  for  our  son,  and  give  it  to  him  on  the 
day  when  he  reaches  his  majority.  Tell  him  of  the  time 
when  I  made  this  bequest  to  him,  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  make  himself  worthy  of  it,  and  live  and  die  as  a 
brave  son  of  his  country,  a  faithful  subject  and  servant  of 
his  king,  who,  God  willing,  will  be  the  son  of  Marie  An- 
toinette. Tell  him  of  his  father ;  say  to  him  that  I  dearly 
loved  you  and  him,  but  that  I  had  devoted  my  life  to  the 
service  of  the  queen,  and  that  I  gave  it  freely  and  gladly, 
in  conformity  with  my  oath.  I  have  not  told  you  about 
these  things  before,  dear  Marguerite — not  because  I  doubted 
your  fidelity,  but  because  I  did  not  want  you  to  have  to 
bear  the  dreadful  burden  of  expectation,  and  because  I  did 
not  want  to  trouble  your  noble  soul  with  these  things. 
And  now  I  only  tell  you  this  much :  I  am  going  away  to 
try  to  save  the  queen.  If  I  succeed,  I  shall  come  back  for 
a  moment  this  evening  at  ten  o'clock.  If  I  remain  away, 
if  you  hear  nothing  from  me  during  the  whole  night, 
then — " 

"Then  what?"  asked  Marguerite,  throwing  her  arms 
around  him,  and  looking  into  his  face  anxiously.  "  Say, 
what  then?" 

"  Then  I  shall  have  died,"  he  said,  softly,  "  and  our  child 
will  be  an  orphan !  Do  not  weep,  Marguerite !  Be  strong 
and  brave,  show  a  cheerful  face  to  our  neighbors,  our 
friends,  and  the  spies!  But  observe  every  thing!  Listen 
to  every  thing!  Keep  the  outer  door  open  all  the  time, 
that  I  may  be  able  to  slip  in  at  any  moment.  Have  the 
little  secret  door  in  my  room  open  too,  and  the  passage- 
way down  into  the  cellar  always  free,  that  I  may  slip  down 
there  if  need  be.  Be  ready  to  receive  me  at  any  time,  to 
hide  me,  and,  it  may  possibly  be,  others  who  may  come 
with  me!" 

"I  shall  expect  you  day  and  night,"  she  whispered,  "so 
long  as  I  live!" 

"And  now,  Marguerite,"  he  said,  pressing  her  tenderly 
to  his  heart,  "one  last  kiss!  Let  me  kiss  your  eyes,  your 


382  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

beautiful  dear  eyes,  which  have  always  glanced  with  looks 
of  love,  and  which  have  always  given  me  new  inspiration. 
Farewell,  my  dear  wife,  and  God  bless  you  for  your  love 
and  fidelity!" 

"  Do  not  go,  my  precious  one !  Come  once  more  to  the 
cradle  of  our  boy  and  give  him  a  parting  kiss!" 

"  No,  Marguerite,  that  would  unman  me,  and  to-day  I 
must  be  strong  and  master  of  myself.  Farewell,  I  am 
going  to  the  Temple!" 

And,  without  looking  at  his  wife  again,  he  hurried  out 
into  the  street,  and  turned  his  steps  toward  his  destination. 
But  just  as  he  was  turning  the  very  next  corner  Lepitre 
met  him,  pale,  and  displaying  great  excitement  in  his  face. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said,  "thank  God  that  I  have  found 
you.  I  wanted  to  hasten  to  you.  We  must  flee  directly — 
all  is  discovered.  Immediate  flight  alone  can  save  us!" 

"  What  is  discovered?"  asked  Toulan.  "  Speak,  Lepitre, 
what  is  discovered  ?" 

"For  God's  sake,  let  us  not  be  standing  here  on  the 
streets!"  ejaculated  Lepitre.  "They  have  certainly  sent 
out  the  constables  to  arrest  us.  Let  us  go  into  this  house 
here,  it  contains  a  passage  through  to  the  next  street. 
Now,  listen !  We  are  reported.  Simon's  wife  has  carried 
our  names  to  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety  as  suspicious 
persons.  Tison's  wife  has  given  out  that  the  queen  and 
her  sister-in-law  have  won  us  both  over,  and  that  through 
our  means  she  is  kept  informed  about  every  thing  that  hap- 
pens. The  carpet-manufacturer,  Arnault,  has  just  been 
publicly  denouncing  us  both,  saying  that  Simon's  wife  has 
reported  to  him  that  we  both  have  conducted  conversation 
with  the  prisoners  in  low  tones  of  voice,  and  have  thereby 
been  the  means  of  conveying  some  kind  of  cheering  in- 
formation to  the  queen.*  On  that,  our  names  were 
stricken  from  the  list  of  official  guards  at  the  Temple,  and 
we  are  excluded  from  the  new  ward  committee  that  is 
forming  to-day." 

"And  is  that  all?"  asked  Toulan,  calmly.  "Is  that  all 
the  bad  news  that  you  bring?  Then  the  projected  flight 
is  not  discovered,  is  it?  Nothing  positive  is  known  against 

*  Literally  reproduced  here. — See  Goncourt,  "Histoire  de  Marie  Antoi- 
nette," p.  290. 


THE   SEPARATION.  383 

us?  Nothing  more  is  known  than  the  silly  and  unfounded 
denunciations  of  two  old  women?" 

"For  God's  sake,  do  not  use  such  idle  words  as  these!" 
replied  Lepitre.  "  We  are  suspected,  our  names  are  stricken 
from  the  ward  list.  Is  not  that  itself  a  charge  against  us? 
And  are  not  those  who  come  under  suspicion  always  con- 
demned? Do  not  laugh,  Toulan,  and  shake  your  head! 
Believe  me,  we  are  lost  if  we  do  not  flee ;  if  we  do  not  leave 
Paris  on  the  spot  and  conceal  ourselves  somewhere.  I  am 
firmly  resolved  on  this,  and  in  an  hour  I  shall  have  started, 
disguised  as  a  sans-culotte.  Follow-  my  example,  my 
friend.  Do  not  throw  away  your  life  foolhardily.  Follow 
me!" 

"No,"  said  Toulan,  "I  shall  stay.  I  have  sworn  to  de- 
vote my  life  to  the  service  of  the  queen,  and  I  shall  fulfil 
my  oath  so  long  as  breath  remains  in  my  body.  I  must  not 
go  away  from  here  so  long  as  there  is  a  possibility  of  assist- 
ing her.  If  flight  is  impracticable  to-day,  it  may  be 
effected  at  some  more  favorable  time,  and  I  must  hold  my- 
self in  readiness  for  it." 

"But  they  will  take  you,  I  tell  you,"  said  Lepitre,  with 
a  downcast  air.  "  You  will  do  no  good  to  the  queen,  and 
only  bring  yourself  to  harm." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  they  will  not  catch  me  so  soon,"  said 
Toulan,  confidently.  "  Fortune  always  favors  the  bold,  and 
I  will  show  you  that  I  am  brave.  Go,  my  friend,  save 
yourself,  and  may  God  give  you  long  life  and  a  contented 
heart !  Farewell,  and  be  careful  that  they  do  not  discover 
you !" 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Toulan,"  said  Lepitre.  "  You 
consider  me  cowardly.  But  I  tell  you,  you  are  foolhardy, 
and  your  folly  will  plunge  you  into  destruction." 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  Lepitre,  and  you  shall  not 
be  with  me.  Every  one  must  do  as  best  he  can,  and  as  his 
heart  and  his  head  dictate  to  him.  One  is  not  the  better 
for  this,  and  another  the  worse.  Farewell,  my  friend! 
Take  care  for  your  own  safety,  for  it  is  well  that  some  faith- 
ful ones  should  still  remain  to  serve  the  queen,  and  I  know 
that  you  will  serve  her  when  she  needs  your  help." 

"  Then  give  me  your  hand  in  parting,  my  friend.  And 
if  at  last  you  come  to  the  conclusion  to  flee,  come  to  Nor- 


384  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

mandy,  and  in  the  village  of  Lerue,  near  Dieppe,  you  will 
find  me,  and  my  father  will  receive  you,  and  you  shall  be 
treated  as  if  you  were  my  brother. " 

"Thanks,  my  friend,  thanks!  One  last  shake  of  the 
hand.  There!  Now  you  are  away,  and  I  remain  here." 

Toulan  went  out  into  the  street,  walked  along  with  a 
cheerful  face,  and  repaired  at  once  to  the  hall  where  the 
Committee  of  Safety  were  sitting. 

"Citizens  and  brothers,"  he  said,  in  a  loud,  bold  voice, 
"  I  have  just  been  informed  that  I  have  been  brought  under 
suspicion  and  denounced.  Friends  have  warned  me  to 
betake  to  flight.  But  I  am  no  coward,  I  have  no  bad  con- 
science, and  therefore  do  not  fly,  but  come  here  and  ask 
you  is  this  true?  Is  it  possible  that  you  regard  me  as  no 
patriot,  and  as  a  traitor?" 

"Yes,"  answered  President  Hobart,  with  a  harsh,  hard 
voice,  "you  are  under  suspicion,  and  we  mistrust  you. 
This  shameful  seducer,  this  she-wolf  Marie  Antoinette  has 
cast  her  foxy  eyes  upon  you,  and  would  doubtless  succeed 
if  you  are  often  with  her.  We  have  therefore  once  for  all 
taken  your  name  from  the  list  of  the  official  guards  in  the 
Temple,  and  you  will  no  longer  be  exposed  to  the  wiles  of 
the  Austrian  woman.  But  besides  this,  as  the  second  de- 
nunciation has  been  made  against  you  to-day,  and  as  it  is 
asserted  that  you  are  in  relations  with  aristocrats  and  sus- 
pected persons,  we  have  considered  it  expedient,  in  view  of 
the  common  safety,  to  issue  a  warrant  for  your  apprehen- 
sion. An  officer  has  just  gone  with  two  soldiers  to  your 
house,  to  arrest  you  and  bring  you  hither.  You  have 
simply  anticipated  the  course  of  law  by  surrendering  your- 
self. Officer,  soldiers,  here!" 

The  persons  summoned  appeared,  and  put  Toulan  under 
arrest,  preparatory  to  taking  him  to  prison. 

"It  is  well,"  said  Toulan,  with  a  noble  calmness.  "I 
know  that  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  regret  having 
so  abused  a  true  patriot;  and  I  hope,  for  the  peace  of  your 
consciences,  that  there  will  be  a  time  then  to  undo  the  evil 
which  you  are  doing  to  me  to-day,  and  that  my  head  will 
then  be  on  my  shoulders,  that  my  lips  may  be  able  to  tes- 
tify to  you  what  my  heart  now  dictates,  that  I  forgive  you ! 
You  are  in  error  about  me,  yet  I  know,  .that  you  are  act- 


THE   SEPARATION.  385 

ing  not  out  of  enmity  to  me,  but  for  the  weal  of  the  coun- 
try, and  out  of  love  for  the  great,  united  republic.  As  the 
true  and  tenderly  loving  son  of  this  noble,  exalted  mother, 
I  forgive  you  for  giving  ear  to  my  unrighteous  accusers, 
and,  even  if  you  shed  my  innocent  blood,  my  dying  wish 
will  be  a  blessing  on  the  republic." 

"Those  are  noble  and  excellent  words,"  said  Hobart, 
coldly.  "  But  if  deeds  speak  in  antagonism  to  words,  we 
cannot  let  the  latter  beguile  us  out  of  our  sense,  but  we 
must  give  heed  to  justice." 

"  That  is  the  one  only  thing  that  I  ask,"  cried  Toulan, 
brightly.  "  Let  justice  be  done,  my  brothers,  and  I  shall 
very  soon  be  free,  and  shall  come  out  from  an  investigation 
like  a  spotless  lamb.  I  make  no  resistance.  Come,  my 
friends,  take  me  to  prison !  I  only  ask  for  permission  to 
be  escorted  first  to  my  house,  to  procure  a  few  articles  of 
clothing  to  use  during  my  imprisonment.  But  I  urge 
pressingly  that  my  articles  may  be  sealed  up  in  my  pres- 
ence. For  when  the  man  of  the  house  is  not  at  home,  it 
fares  badly  with  the  safety  of  his  property,  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  feel  at  ease  only  when  the  seal  of  the  republic  is 
upon  my  possessions.  I  beg  you  therefore  to  allow  my 
paper  and  valuables  to  be  sealed  in  my  presence.  You  will 
thus  be  sure  that  my  wife  and  my  friends  have  not  removed 
any  thing  which  might  be  used  against  me,  and  my  inno- 
cence will  shine  out  the  more  clearly.  I  beg  you  therefore 
to  comply  with  my  wish." 

The  members  of  the  committee  consulted  with  one  an- 
other in  low  tones,  and  the  chairman  then  announced  to 
Toulan  that  his  wish  would  be  complied  with,  and  that  an 
escort  of  soldiers  might  accompany  him  to  his  house,  to 
allow  him  to  procure  linen  and  clothing,  and  to  seal  his 
effects  and  papers  in  their  presence. 

Toulan  thanked  them  with  cheerful  looks,  and  went  out 
into  the  street  between  the  two  guards.  As  they  were  on 
the  way  to  his  house,  he  talked  easily  with  them,  laughed 
and  joked ;  but  in  his  own  thoughts  he  said  to  himself, 
"You  are  lost!  hopelessly  lost,  if  you  do  not  escape  now. 
You  are  the  prey  of  the  guillotine,  if  the  gates  of  the 
prison  once  close  upon  you;  therefore  escape,  escape  or 
die."  "While  he  was  thus  laughing  and  talking  with  the 


386  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

soldiers,  and  meanwhile  thinking  such  solemn  thoughts, 
his  sharp  black  eyes  were  glancing  in  all  directions,  looking 
for  a  friend  who  might  assist  him  out  of  his  trouble. 

And  fortune  sent  him  such  a  friend ! — Eicard,  Toulan's 
most  trusted  counsellor,  the  abettor  of  his  plans. 

Toulan  called  him  with  an  animated  face,  and  in  loud 
tones  told  him  that  he  had  been  denounced,  and  therefore 
arrested ;  and  that  he  was  only  allowed  to  go  to  his  house 
to  procure  some  clothing. 

"Come  along,  Kicard,"  he  said.  "They  are  going  to 
put  my  effects  under  seal,  and  you  have  some  papers  and 
books  on  my  writing-table.  Come  along,  and  take  posses- 
sion of  your  own  things,  so  that  they  may  not  be  sealed 
up  as  mine." 

Eicard  nodded  assent,  and  a  significant  look  told  Toulan 
that  his  friend  understood  him,  and  that  his  meaning  was, 
that  Eicard  should  take  possession  of  papers  that  might 
bring  Toulan  under  suspicion.  Continuing  their  walk, 
they  spoke  of  indifferent  matters,  and  at  last  reached  Tou- 
lan's house.  Marguerite  met  them  with  calm  bearing. 
She  knew  that  every  cry,  every  expression  of  anxiety  and 
trouble,  would  only  imperil  the  condition  of  her  husband, 
and  her  love  gave  her  power  to  master  herself. 

"Ah!  are  you  there,  husband?"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
how  hard  to  her  no  one  knew.  "  You  are  bringing  a  great 
deal  of  company." 

"Yes,  Marguerite,"  said  Toulan,  with  a  smile,  "and  I 
am  going  to  keep  on  with  this  pleasant  company  to  prison." 

"  Oh !"  she  cried,  laughing,  "  that  is  a  good  joke ! 
Toulan,  the  best  of  patriots,  in  prison!  Come,  you  ought 
not  to  joke  about  serious  matters." 

"It  is  no  joke,"  said  one  of  the  guards,  solemnly. 
"  Citizen  Toulan  is  arrested,  and  is  here  only  to  procure 
some  articles  of  clothing,  and  have  his  effects  put  under 


"  And  to  give  back  to  his  friend  Eicard  the  books  and 
papers  that  belong  to  him,"  said  Toulan.  "Come,  let  us 
go  into  my  study,  friends." 

"  There  are  my  books  and  papers,"  cried  Eicard,  as  they 
went  into  the  next  room.  He  sprang  forward  to  the  writ- 
ing-table, seized  all  the  papers  lying  upon  it,  and  tried  to 


THE   SEPARATION.  387 

thrust  them  into  his  coat-pocket.  But  the  two  soldiers 
checked  him,  and  undertook  to  resist  his  movement.  Ri- 
card  protested,  a  loud  exchange  of  words  took  place — in 
which  Marguerite  had  her  share — insisting  that  all  the 
papers  on  the  table  belonged  to  Ricard,  and  she  should  like 
to  see  the  man  who  could  have  the  impudence  to  prevent 
his  taking  them. 

Louder  and  louder  grew  the  contention ;  and  when  Ri- 
card  was  endeavoring  again  to  put  the  papers  into  his  pocket, 
the  two  soldiers  rushed  at  him  to  prevent  it.  Marguerite 
tried  to  come  to  his  assistance,  and  in  the  effort,  overthrew 
a  little  table  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  on 
which  was  a  water-bottle  and  some  glasses.  The  table 
came  down,  a  rattle  of  broken  glass  followed,  and  amid  the 
noise  and  outcries,  the  controversy  and  violence,  no  one 
paid  attention  to  Toulan ;  no  one  saw  the  little  secret  door 
quietly  open,  and  Toulan  glide  from  view. 

The  soldiers  did  not  notice  this  movement,  but  Marguer- 
ite and  Ricard  understood  it  well,  and  went  on  all  the 
more  eagerly  with  their  cries  and  contentions,  to  give  Tou- 
lan time  to  escape  by  the  secret  passage. 

And  they  were  successful.  When  the  two  guards  had, 
after  long  searching,  discovered  the  secret  door  through 
which  the  escape  had  been  effected,  and  had  rushed  down 
the  hidden  stairway,  not  a  trace  of  him  was  to  be  seen. 

Toulan  was  free !  Unhindered,  he  hastened  to  the  little 
attic,  which  he  had,  some  time  before,  hired  in  the  house 
adjacent  to  the  Temple,  put  on  a  suit  of  clothes  which  he 
had  prepared  there,  and  remained  concealed  the  whole  day. 

As  Marie  Antoinette  lay  sleepless  upon  her  bed  in  the 
night  that  followed  this  vain  attempt  at  flight,  and  was 
torturing  herself  with  anxious  doubts  whether  Fidele  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  his  devotion,  suddenly  the  tones  of  a 
huntsman's  horn  broke  the  silence ;  Marie  Antoinette  raised 
herself  up  and  listened.  Princess  Elizabeth  had  done  the 
same ;  and  with  suspended  breath  they  both  listened  to  the 
long-drawn  and  plaintive  tones  which  softly  floated  in  to 
them  on  the  wings  of  the  night.  A  smile  of  satisfaction 
flitted  over  their  pale,  sad  faces,  and  a  deep  sigh  escaped 
from  their  heavy  hearts. 

"  Thank  God!  he  is  saved,"  whispered  Marie  Antoinette. 


388  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  Is  not  that  the  melody  that  was  to  tell  us  that  our  friend 
is  in  the  neighborhood?" 

"  Yes,  sister,  that  is  the  one !  So  long  as  we  hear  this 
signal,  we  shall  know  that  Toulan  is  living  still,  and  that 
he  is  near  us." 

And  in  the  following  weeks  the  prisoners  of  the  Temple 
often  had  the  sad  consolation  of  hearing  the  tones  of  Tou- 
lan's  horn;  but  he  never  came  to  them  again,  he  never 
appeared  in  the  anteroom  to  keep  guard  over  the  im- 
prisoned queen. 

Toulan  did  not  flee !  He  had  the  courage  to  remain  in 
Paris;  he  was  constantly  hoping  that  an  occasion  might 
arise  to  help  the  queen  escape ;  he  was  constantly  putting 
himself  in  connection  with  friends  for  this  object,  and 
making  plans  for  the  flight  of  the  royal  captives. 

But  exactly  what  Toulan  hoped  for  stood  as  a  threaten- 
ing phantom  before  the  eyes  of  the  Convention — the  flight 
of  the  prisoners  in  the  Temple.  They  feared  the  queen 
even  behind  those  thick  walls,  behind  the  four  iron  doors 
that  closed  upon  her  prison !  They  feared  still  more  this 
poor  child  of  seven  years,  this  little  king  without  crown 
and  without  throne,  the  son  of  him  who  had  been  executed. 
The  Committee  of  Safety  knew  that  people  were  talking 
about  the  little  king  in  the  Temple,  and  that  touching 
anecdotes  about  him  were  in  circulation.  A  bold,  reckless 
fellow  had  appeared  who  called  himself  a  prophet,  and  had 
loudly  announced  upon  the  streets  and  squares,  that  the 
lilies  would  bloom  again,  and  that  the  sons  of  Brutus  would 
fall  beneath  the  hand  of  the  little  king  whose  throne  was 
in  the  Temple.  They  had,  it  is  true,  arrested  the  prophet 
and  dragged  him  to  the  guillotine,  but  his  prophecies  had 
found  an  echo  here  and  there,  and  an  interest  in  the  little 
prince  had  been  awakened  in  the  people.  The  noble  and 
enthusiastic  men  known  as  the  Girondists  were  deeply  so- 
licitous about  the  young  royal  martyr,  and  the  application 
of  this  expression  to  the  little  dauphin,  made  in  the  earnest 
and  impassioned  speeches  before  the  Convention,  melted 
all  hearers  to  tears  and  called  out  a  deep  sympathy. 

The  Convention  saw  the  danger,  and  at  once  resolved  to 
be  free  from  it.  On  the  1st  of  July  1793,  that  body  issued 
a  decree  with  the  following  purport:  "The  Committee  of 


THE   SEPARATION.  389 

Public  Safety  ordains  that  the  son  of  Capet  be  separated 
from  his  mother,  and  be  delivered  to  an  instructor,  whom 
the  general  director  of  the  communes  shall  appoint." 

The  queen  had  no  suspicion  of  this.  Now  that  Toulan 
was  no  longer  there,  no  news  came  to  her  of  what  trans- 
pired beyond  the  prison,  and  Fiddle's  horn-signals  were  the 
only  sounds  of  the  outer  world  that  reached  her  ear. 

The  evening  of  the  3d  of  July  had  come.  The  little 
prince  had  gone  to  bed,  and  had  already  sunk  into  a  deep 
sleep.  His  bed  had  no  curtains,  but  Marie  Antoinette  had 
with  careful  hands  fastened  a  shawl  to  the  wall,  and  spread 
it  out  over  the  bed  in  such  a  manner  that  the  glare  of  the 
light  did  not  fall  upon  the  closed  eyes  of  the  child  and  dis- 
turb him  in  his  peaceful  slumbers.  It  was  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  and  the  ladies  had  that  day  waited  unwontedly 
long  before  going  to  bed.  The  queen  and  Princess  Eliza- 
beth were  busied  in  mending  the  clothing  of  the  family, 
and  Princess  Theresa,  sitting  between  the  two,  had  been 
reading  to  them  some  chapters  out  of  the  Historical  Dic- 
tionary. At  the  wish  of  the  queen,  she  had  now  taken  a 
religious  book,  Passion  "Week,  and  was  reading  some  hymns 
and  prayers  out  of  it. 

Suddenly,  the  quick  steps  of  several  men  were  heard  in 
the  corridor.  The  bolts  flew  back,  the  doors  were  opened, 
and  six  officials  came  in. 

"We  are  come,"  cried  one  of  them,  with  a  brutal  voice, 
"  to  announce  to  you  the  order  of  the  committee,  that  the 
son  of  Capet  be  separated  from  his  mother  and  his  family." 

At  these  words  the  queen  rose,  pale  with  horror  "  They 
are  going  to  take  my  child  from  me!"  she  cried.  "No, 
no,  that  is  not  possible.  Gentlemen,  the  authorities  can- 
not think  of  separating  me  from  my  son.  He  is  still  so 
young  and  weak,  he  needs  my  care." 

"The  committee  has  come  to  this  determination,"  an- 
swered the  official,  "  the  Convention  has  confirmed  it,  and 
we  shall  carry  it  into  execution  directly." 

"I  cannot  allow  it,"  cried  Marie  Antoinette  in  desper- 
ation. "  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  I  conjure  you  not  to  be 
so  cruel!"  ' 

Elizabeth  and  Theresa  mingled  their  tears  with  those  of 
the  mother.  All  three  had  placed  themselves  before  the 


390  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

bed  of  the  dauphin;  they  clung  to  it,  they  folded  then 
hands,  they  sobbed;  the  most  touching  cries,  the  most 
humble  prayers  trembled  on  their  lips,  but  the  guards  were 
not  at  all  moved. 

"What  is  all  this  whining  for?"  they  said.  "No  one  is 
going  to  kill  your  child;  give  him  to  us  of  your  own  free 
will,  or  we  shall  have  to  take  him  by  force." 

They  strode  up  to  the  bed.  Marie  Antoinette  placed 
herself  with  extended  arms  before  it,  and  held  the  curtain 
firmly ;  it  however  detached  itself  from  the  wall  and  fell 
upon  the  face  of  the  dauphin.  He  awoke,  saw  what  was 
going  on,  and  threw  himself  with  loud  shrieks  into  the 
arms  of  the  queen.  "  Mamma,  dear  Mamma,  do  not  leave 
me!"  She  pressed  him  trembling  to  her  bosom,  quieted 
him,  and  defended  him  against  the  cruel  hands  that  were 
reached  out  for  him. 

In  vain,  all  in  vain !  The  men  of  the  republic  have  no 
compassion  on  the  grief  of  a  mother !  "  By  free  will  or  by 
force  he  must  go  with  us." 

"  Then  promise  me  at  least  that  he  shall  remain  in  the 
tower  of  the  Temple,  that  I  may  see  him  every  day." 

"  We  have  nothing  to  promise  you,  we  have  no  account 
at  all  to  give  you.  Parbleu,  how  can  you  take  on  and 
howl  so,  merely  because  your  child  is  taken  from  you? 
Our  children  have  to  do  more  than  that.  They  have 
every  day  to  have  their  heads  split  open  with  the  balls  of 
the  enemies  that  you  have  set  upon  them." 

"  My  son  is  still  too  young  to  be  able  to  serve  his  coun- 
try," said  the  queen,  gently,  "but  I  hope  that  if  God  per- 
mits it,  he  will  some  day  be  proud  to  devote  his  life  to 
Him." 

Meanwhile  the  two  princesses,  urged  on  by  the  officials, 
had  clothed  the  gasping,  sobbing  boy.  The  queen  now 
saw  that  no  more  hope  remained.  She  sank  upon  a  chair, 
and  summoning  all  her  strength,  she  called  the  dauphin  to 
herself,  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  pale,  im- 
movable, with  widely-opened  eyes,  whose  burning  lids  were 
cooled  by  no  tear,  she  gazed  upon  the  quivering  face  of  the 
boy,  who  had  fixed  his  great  blue  eyes,  swimming  with 
tears,  upon  the  countenance  of  his  mother. 

"My  child,"  said  the  queen,  solemnly,  "we  must  part. 


THE   SEPARATION.  391 

Kemember  your  duties  when  I  am  no  more  with  you  to 
remind  you  of  them.  Never  forget  the  good  God  who  is 
proving  you,  and  your  mother  who  is  praying  for  you. 
Be  good  and  patient,  and  your  Father  in  heaven  will  bless 
you." 

She  bent  over,  and  with  her  cold  lips  pressed  a  kiss  upon 
the  forehead  of  her  son,  then  gently  pushed  him  toward 
the  turnkey.  But  the  boy  sprang  back  to  her  again,  clung 
to  her  with  his  arms,  and  would  not  go. 

"  My  son,  we  must  obey.     God  wills  it  so." 

A  loud,  savage  laugh  was  heard.  Shuddering,  the  queen 
turned  around.  There  at  the  open  door  stood  Simon,  and 
with  him  his  wife,  their  hard  features  turned  maliciously 
toward  the  pale  queen.  The  woman  stretched  out  her 
brown,  bare  arms  to  the  child,  grasped  him,  and  pushed 
him  before  her  to  the  door. 

"  Is  she  to  have  him?"  shrieked  Marie  Antoinette.  "  Is 
my  son  to  remain  with  this  woman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Simon,  with  a  grinning  smile,  as  he  put 
himself,  with  his  arms  akimbo,  before  the  queen — "yes, 
with  this  woman  and  with  me,  her  husband,  little  Capet  is 
to  remain,  and  I  tell  you  he  shall  receive  a  royal  educa- 
tion. We  shall  teach  him  to  forget  the  past,  and  only  to 
remember  that  he  is  a  child  of  the  one  and  indivisible  re- 
public. If  he  does  not  come  to  it,  he  must  be  brought  to 
it,  and  my  old  cobbler's  straps  will  be  good  helpers  in  this 
matter." 

He  nodded  at  Marie  Antoinette  with  a  fiendish  smile, 
and  then  followed  the  officials,  who  had  already  gone  out. 
The  doors  were  closed  again,  the  bolts  drawn,  and  within 
the  chamber  reigned  the  stillness  of  death.  The  two 
women  put  their  arms  around  one  another,  kneeled  upon 
the  floor  and  prayed. 

From  this  day  on,  Marie  Antoinette  had  no  hope  more ; 
her  heart  was  broken.  Whole  days  long  she  sat  fixed  and 
immovable,  without  paying  any  regard  to  the  tender  words 
of  her  sister-in-law  and  the  caresses  of  her  daughter,  with- 
out working,  reading,  or  busying  herself  in  any  way. 
Formerly  she  had  helped  to  put  the  rooms  in  order,  and 
mend  the  clothes  and  linen ;  now  she  let  the  two  princesses 
do  this  alone  and  serve  her. 


392  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER    SON. 

Only  for  a  few  hours  each  day  did  her  countenance 
lighten  at  all,  and  the  power  of  motion  return  to  this 
pale,  marble  figure.  Those  were  the  hours  when  she 
waited  for  her  son,  as  he  went  with  Simon  every  day  to 
the  upper  story  and  the  platform  of  the  tower.  She  would 
then  put  her  head  to  the  door  and  listen  to  every  step  and 
all  the  words  that  he  directed  to  the  turnkey  as  he  passed 
by. 

Soon  she  discovered  a  means  of  seeing  him.  There  was 
a  little  crack  on  the  floor  of  the  platform  on  which  the  boy 
walked.  The  world  revolved  for  the  queen  only  around 
this  little  crack,  and  the  instant  in  which  she  could  see  her 
boy. 

At  times,  too,  a  compassionate  guard  who  had  to  inspect 
the  prison  brought  her  tidings  of  her  son,  told  her  that  he 
was  well,  that  he  had  learned  to  play  ball,  and  that  by  his 
friendly  nature  he  won  every  one's  love.  Then  Marie  An- 
toinette's countenance  would  lighten,  a  smile  would  play 
over  her  features  and  linger  on  her  pale  lips  as  long  as  they 
were  speaking  of  her  boy.  But  oh !  soon  there  came  other 
tidings  about  the  unhappy  child.  His  wailing  tones, 
Simon's  threats,  and  his  wife's  abusive  words  penetrated 
even  the  queen's  apartments,  and  filled  her  with  the 
anguish  of  despair.  And  yet  it  was  not  the  worst  to 
hear  him  cry,  and  to  know  that  the  son  of  the  queen  was 
treated  ill;  it  was  still  more  dreadful  to  hear  him  sing 
with  a  loud  voice,  accompanied  by  the  laugh  and  the  bra- 
voes  of  Simon  and  his  wife,  revolutionary  and  obscene 
songs — to  know  that  not  only  his  body  but  his  soul  was 
doomed  to  destruction. 

At  first  the  queen,  on  hearing  these  dreadful  songs, 
broke  out  into  lamentations,  cries,  and  loud  threats  against 
those  who  were  destroying  the  soul  of  her  child.  Then  a 
gradual  paralysis  crept  over  her  heart,  and  when,  on  the 
2d  of  August,  she  was  taken  from  the  Temple  to  the 
prison,  the  pale  lips  of  the  queen  merely  whispered, 
"  Thank  God,  I  shall  not  have  to  hear  him  sing  any  more!" 


BOOK  Y. 
CHAPTEK    XXIV. 

THE     DEATH     OF     THE     QUEEN". 

THE  Bartholomew's  night  of  the  murderous  Catharine 
de  Medicis,  and  her  mad  son,  Charles  IX.,  now  found  in 
France  its  horrible  and  bloody  repetition ;  but  the  night  of 
horror  which  we  are  now  to  contemplate  was  continued  on 
into  the  day,  and  did  not  shrink  even  before  the  light. 

The  sun  shone  down  upon  the  streams  of  blood  which 
flowed  through  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  upon  the  pack  of 
wild  dogs  that  swarmed  in  uncounted  numbers  on  the 
thoroughfares  of  the  city,  and  lived  on  this  blood,  which 
gave  back  even  to  the  tame  their  natural  wildness.  The 
sun  shone  down  upon  the  scaffold,  that  rose  like  a  threaten- 
ing monster  upon  the  Place  de  la  Kevolution,  and  upon 
the  dreadful  axe  which  daily  severed  so  many  noble  forms, 
and  then  rose  from  the  block  glittering  and  menacing. 

The  sun  shone  on  that  day,  too,  when  Marie  Antoinette 
ascended  the  scaffold,  as  her  husband  had  done  before, 
and  so  passed  to  her  rest,  from  all  the  pains  and  humili- 
ations of  her  last  years. 

That  day  was  the  16th  of  October,  1793.  For  four 
months  Marie  Antoinette  looked  forward  to  it  as  to  a  joy- 
ful deliverance.  It  was  four  months  from  the  time  when 
she  was  transferred  from  the  Temple  to  the  prison,  and 
she  knew  that  those  who  were  confined  in  the  latter  place 
only  left  it  to  gain  the  freedom,  not  that  man  gives,  but 
which  God  grants  to  the  suffering — the  freedom  of  death ! 

Marie  Antoinette  longed  for  the  deliverance.  Ho'w  far 
behind  her  now  lay  the  days  of  her  happy,  joyous  youth!, 
how  long  ago  the  time  when  the  tall,  grave  woman,  her 


394  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

face  full  of  pride  and  yet  of  resignation,  had  been  charm- 
ing Marie  Antoinette,  the  very  impersonation  of  beauty, 
youth,  and  love,  carrying  out  in  Trianon  the  idyl  of  roman- 
tic country  life — in  the  excess  of  her  gayety  going  dis- 
guised to  the  public  opera-house  ball,  believing  herself  so 
safe  amid  the  French  people  that  she  could  dispense  with 
the  protection  of  etiquette — hailed  with  an  enthusiastic 
admiration  then,  as  she  was  now  saluted  with  the  savage 
shouts  of  the  enraged  people! 

No,  the  former  queen,  Marie  Antoinette,  who,  in  the 
gilded  saloons  of  Versailles  and  in  the  Tuileries,  had  re- 
ceived the  homage  of  all  France,  and  with  a  smiling  face 
and  perfect  grace  of  manner  acknowledged  all  the  tribute 
that  was  brought  to  her,  had  no  longer  any  resemblance  to 
the  widow  of  Louis  Capet,  sitting  before  the  revolutionary 
tribunal,  and  giving  earnest  answers  to  the  questions  which 
were  'put  to  her.  She  arranged  her  toilet  that  day — but 
how  different  was  the  toilet  of  the  Widow  Capet  from  that 
which  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  had  once  displayed!  At 
that  earlier  time,  she,  the  easy,  light-hearted  daughter  of 
fortune,  had  shut  herself  up  for  hours  with  her  intimate 
companion,  Madame  Berthier,  the  royal  milliner,  planning 
a  new  ball-dress,  or  a  new  fichu;  or  her  Leonard  would 
lavish  all  the  resources  of  his  fancy  and  his  art  inventing 
new  styles  of  head-dress,  now  decorating  the  beautiful  head 
of  the  queen  with  towering  masses  of  auburn  hair ;  now 
braiding  it  so  as  to  make  it  enfold  little  war-ships,  the 
sails  of  which  were  finely  woven  from  her  own  locks ;  now 
laying  out  a  garden  filled  with  fruits  and  flowers,  butter- 
flies and  birds  of  paradise. 

The  "  Widow  Capet"  needed  no  milliner  and  no  hair- 
dresser in  making  her  toilet.  Her  tall,  slender  figure  was 
enveloped  with  the  black  woollen  dress  which  the  republic 
had  given  her  at  her  request,  that  she  might  commemorate 
her  deceased  husband.  Her  neck  and  shoulders,  which 
had  once  been  the  admiration  of  France,  was  now  con- 
cealed by  a  white  muslin  kerchief,  which  her  keeper  Bault 
had  given  her  out  of  sympathy.  Her  hair  was  uncovered, 
and  fell  in  long,  natural  locks  on  both  sides  of  her  pale, 
transparent  face.  Her  hair  needed  no  powder  now;  the 
long,  sleepless  nights  and  the  sorrowful  days  have  whitened 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  QUEEN.        395 

it  more  than  any  powder  could  do;  and  the  widow  of  Louis 
Capet,  though  but  thirty-eight  years  old,  had  the  gray 
locks  of  a  woman  of  seventy. 

In  this  toilet  Marie  Antoinette  appeared  before  the  revo- 
lutionary tribunal,  from  the  6th  to  the  13th  of  October. 
Nothing  royal  was  left  about  her  but  her  look  and  her 
proud  bearing. 

The  people,  pressing  in  dense  masses  into  the  spectators' 
seats,  did  not  weary  of  seeing  the  queen  in  her  humiliation 
and  in  her  mourning-robe,  and  constantly  demanded  that 
Marie  Antoinette  should  rise  from  the  woven  rush  chair  on 
which  she  was  sitting,  that  she  should  allow  herself  to  be 
stared  at  by  this  throng,  brought  there  not  out  of  com- 
passion, but  curiosity. 

Once,  as  she  rose  in  reply  to  the  demand  of  the  public, 
she  was  heard  to  whisper,  as  to  herself:  "Ah,  will  this 
people  not  soon  be  satisfied  with  my  sufferings?"  *  At  an- 
other time,  her  pale,  dry  lips  murmured,  "I  am  thirsty!" 
but  no  one  around  her  dared  to  have  compassion  on  this 
cry  of  distress ;  every  one  looked  perplexed  at  the  others, 
and  no  one  dared  give  her  a  glass  of  water.  At  last  one  of 
the  gens  d'armes  ventured  to  do  it,  and  Marie  Antoinette 
thanked  him  with  a  look  that  brought  tears  into  his  eyes, 
and  that  perhaps  caused  him  to  fall  on  the  morrow  under 
the  guillotine  as  a  traitor. 

The  gens  (Parities  who  guarded  the  queen,  they  alone  had 
the  courage  to  show  her  compassion.  One  night,  when 
she  was  conducted  from  the  session-room  to  her  prison, 
Marie  Antoinette  felt  herself  so  exhausted,  so  overcome, 
that  she  murmured  to  herself,  as  she  staggered  on,  "  I  can- 
not see,  I  cannot  walk  any  farther."  f  The  guard  who  was 
walking  by  her  side  gave  her  his  arm,  and,  supported  by 
him,  Marie  Antoinette  reeled  up  the  stone  steps  that  led 
to  her  prison. 

At  last,  in  the  night  intervening  between  the  14th  and 
15th  of  October,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  her  sen- 
tence was  pronounced — "  Death !  execution  by  the  guillo- 
tine!" 

Marie  Antoinette  received  it  with  unshakable  calmness, 

*  Marie  Antoinette's   own  words.— See  Goncourt,  "Histoire  de  Marie  An- 
toinette," p.  404. 
t  Goncourt,  p.  415. 

26 


396  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

while  the  tumult  of  the  excited  mob  was  hushed  as  by 
magic,  and  while  many  faces  even  of  the  exasperated  fish- 
wives grew  pale ! 

Marie  Antoinette  remained  calm ;  gravely  and  coldly  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  and  with  her  own  hands  opened  the 
balustrade  in  order  to  leave  the  hall  to  return  to  her  prison ! 

Finally,  on  the  morning  of  the  16th  of  October,  her 
sufferings  were  allowed  to  end,  and  she  was  permitted  to 
take  refuge  in  the  grave.  It  almost  made  her  joyful ;  she 
had  suffered  so  much,  that  to  die  was  for  her  really  blessed- 
ness. 

She  employed  the  still  hours  of  the  night  before  her 
death  in  writing  to  her  sister-in-law,  Madame  Elizabeth, 
and  her  letter  was  at  the  same  time  her  testament.  But 
the  widow  of  Louis  Capet  had  no  riches,  no  treasures  to 
convey.  She  had  nothing  more  that  she  could  call  her  own 
but  her  love,  her  tears,  and  her  farewell  greetings.  These 
she  left  to  all  who  had  loved  her.  She  sent  a  special  word 
to  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  bade  them  farewell. 

"  I  had  friends,"  she  says,  "and  the  thought  that  I  am 
to  be  forever  separated  from  them,  and  their  sorrow  for 
me,  is  the  most  painful  thing  in  this  hour;  they  shall  at 
least  know  that  I  thought  of  them  to  the  last  moment." 

After  Marie  Antoinette  had  ended  this  letter,  whose 
writing  was  here  and  there  blotted  with  her  tears,  she 
turned  her  thoughts  to  the  last  remembrances  she  could 
leave  to  her  children — a  remembrance  which  should  not  be 
profaned  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner.  This  was  her 
loiig  hair,  whose  silver  locks,  the  only  ornament  that  re- 
mained to  her,  was  at  the  same  time  the  sad  record  of  her 
sorrows. 

Marie  Antoinette,  with  her  own  hands,  despoiled  herself 
of  this  ornament,  and  cut  off  her  long  back-hair,  that  it 
might  be  a  last  gift  to  her  children,  her  relations,  and 
friends.  Then,  after  a  period  of  meditation,  she  prepared 
herself  for  the  last  great  ceremony  of  her  career — her  death. 
She  felt  herself  exhausted,  worn  out,  and  recognized  her 
need  of  some  physical  support  during  the  hard  way  which 
lay  before  her.  She  asked  for  nourishment,  and  ate  with 
Home  relish  the  wing  of  a  fowl  that  was  brought  to  her. 
After  that  she  made  her  toilet — the  toilet  of  death ! 


•  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  QUEEN.        397 

At  the  request  of  the  queen,  the  wife  of  the  turnkey  gave 
her  one  of  her  own  chemises,  and  Marie  Antoinette  put  it 
on.  Then  she  arrayed  herself  in  the  same  garments  which 
she  had  worn  at  her  trial,  with  this  single  change — that 
over  the  black  woollen  dress,  which  she  had  often  mended 
with  her  own  hand,  she  now  wore  a  cloak  of  white  pique. 
Around  her  neck  she  tied  a  simple  kerchief  of  white  mus- 
lin, and  as  she  would  not  be  allowed  to  ascend  the  scaffold 
with  uncovered  head,  she  put  on  a  plain  linen  cap,  such  as 
was  in  general  use  among  the  people.  Black  stockings 
covered  her  feet,  and  over  these  were  shoes  of  black  woollen 
stuff. 

Her  toilet  was  at  last  ended;  she  was  done  with  all 
earthly  things!  Eeady  to  meet  her  death,  she  lay  down  on 
her  bed  and  slept. 

She  was  still  sleeping  when  it  was  announced  to  her  that 
a  priest  was  there,  ready  to  meet  her,  if  she  wanted  to  con- 
fess. But  Marie  Antoinette  had  already  unveiled  her  heart 
before  God:  she  wanted  none  of  those  priests  of  reason 
whom  the  republic  had  appointed  after  it  had  banished  or 
guillotined  the  priests  of  the  Church. 

"  As  I  am  not  mistress  of  my  own  will,"  she  had  written 
to  her  sister  Elizabeth,  "  I  shall  have  to  submit  if  a  priest 
is  brought  to  me ;  but  I  solemnly  declare  that  I  will  not 
speak  a  word  to  him,  and  that  I  shall  treat  him  as  a  person 
with  whom  I  wish  to  have  no  relations." 

And  Marie  Antoinette  kept  her  word ;  she  did  not  refuse 
to  allow  Geroid  to  enter;  but  when  he  asked  her  if  she 
wished  to  receive  the  consolations  of  religion  from  him,  she 
declined. 

Then,  in  order  to  warm  her  feet,  which  were  cold,  she 
walked  up  and  down  her  little  room.  As  it  struck  seven 
the  door  opened.  It  was  Samson,  the  public  executioner, 
who  entered ! 

A  slight  thrill  passed  through  the  form  of  the  queen. 
"You  have  come  very  early,  sir;  could  you  not  delay  a 
little?"  When  Samson  denied  her  request,  Marie  Antoi- 
nette put  on  her  calm,  cold  manner.  She  drank,  without 
resistance,  a  cup  of  chocolate  which  was  brought  to  her; 
she  remained  possessed,  and  wore  her  wonted  air  of  dignity 
as  they  bound  her  hands  behind  her  with  thick  cords. 


398  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  left  her  room,  passed  through  the 
corridor,  and  ascended  the  car,  which  was  waiting  for  her 
before  the  prison  door.  No  one  accompanied  her,  no  one 
bade  her  a  last  farewell,  not  a  look  of  pity  or  compassion 
was  bestowed  upon  her  by  her  keepers. 

Alone,  between  the  rows  of  gens  d'armes  that  were  placed 
along  the  sides  of  the  corridor,  the  queen  advanced,  Sam- 
son walking  behind  her,  carrying  the  end  of  the  rope  with 
which  the  queen's  hands  were  bound,  and  behind  him  his 
two  assistants  and  the  priest.  This  is  the  retinue  of  the 
queen,  the  daughter  of  an  emperor,  on  the  way  to  her 
execution ! 

It  may  be,  that  at  this  hour  thousands  are  on  their 
knees,  offering  their  fervent  prayers  to  God  in  behalf  of 
Marie  Antoinette,  whom,  in  their  hearts,  they  continued  to 
call  "  the  queen ;"  it  may  be  that  thousands  are  pouring 
out  tears  of  compassion  for  her  who  now  mounts  the 
wretched  car,  and  sits  down  on  the  board  which  is  bound 
by  ropes  to  the  sides  of  the  vehicle.  But  those  who  are 
praying  and  weeping  have  withdrawn  to  the  solitude  of 
their  own  apartments,  and  only  God  can  see  their  tears  and 
hear  their  cries.  The  eyes  which  witnessed  the  queen  in 
this  last  drive  were  not  allowed  to  shed  a  tear;  the  words 
which  followed  her  on  her  last  way  could  express  no  com- 
passion. 

All  Paris  knew  the  hour  of  the  execution,  and  the  peo- 
ple were  ready  to  witness  it.  On  the  streets,  at  the  win- 
dows, on  the  roofs,  immense  masses  had  congregated,  and 
the  whole  Place  de  la  Kevolution  (now  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde)  was  filled  with  a  dark,  surging  crowd. 

And  now  the  drums  of  the  guards  stationed  before  the 
Conciergerie  began  to  beat.  The  great  white  horse,  (which 
drew  the  car  in  which  the  queen  sat,  side  by  side  with  the 
priest,  and  facing  backward,)  was  driven  forward  by  a  man 
who  was  upon  his  back.  Behind  Marie  Antoinette  were 
Samson  and  his  assistants. 

The  queen  was  pale,  all  the  blood  had  left  her  cheeks 
and  lips,  but  her  eyes  were  red!  Poor  queen,  she  bore 
even  then  the  marks  of  much  weeping!  But  she  could 
shed  no  tears  then !  Not  a  single  one  obscured  her  eye  as 
her  look  ranged,  gravely  and  calmly,  over  the  mass,  up  the 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  QUEEN.        399 

houses  to  the  very  roofs,  then  slowly  down,  and  then  away 
over  the  boundless  sea  of  human  faces. 

Her  face  was  as  cold  and  grave  as  her  eyes,  her  lips  were 
firmly  compressed ;  not  a  quiver  betrayed  whether  she  was 
suffering,  and  whether  she  shrank  from  the  thousand  and 
ten  thousand  scornful  and  curious  looks  which  were  fixed 
upon  her.  And  yet  Marie  Antoinette  saw  it  all !  She  saw 
a  woman  raise  a  child,  she  saw  the  child  throw  her  a  kiss 
with  its  little  hand!  At  that  the  queen  gave  way  for  an 
instant,  her  lips  quivered,  her  eyes  were  darkened  with  a 
tear !  This  solitary  sign  of  human  sympathy  reanimated 
the  heart  of  the  queen,  and  gave  her  a  little  fresh  life. 

But  the  people  took  good  care  that  Marie  Antoinette 
should  not  carry  this  one  drop  of  comfort  to  the  end  of  her 
journey.  The  populace  thronged  around  the  car,  howled, 
groaned,  sang  ribald  songs,  clapped  their  hands,  and 
pointed  their  fingers  in  derision  at  Madame  Veto. 

The  queen,  however,  remained  calm,  her  gaze  wandering 
coldly  over  the  vast  multitude ;  only  once  did  her  eye  flash 
on  the  route.  It  was  as  she  passed  the  Palais  Royal,  where 
Philippe  Egalite,  once  the  Duke  d'Orleans,  lived,  and  read 
the  inscription  which  he  had  caused  to  be  placed  over  the 
main  entrance  of  the  palace. 

At  noon  the  car  reached  its  destination.  It  came  to  a 
halt  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold;  Marie  Antoinette  dis- 
mounted, and  then  walked  slowly  and  with  erect  head  up 
the  steps. 

Not  once  during  her  dreadful  ride  had  her  lips  opened, 
not  a  complaint  had  escaped  her,  not  a  farewell  had  she 
spoken.  The  only  adieu  which  she  had  to  give  on  earth 
was  a  look — one  long,  sad  look — directed  toward  the  Tuil- 
eries;  and  as  she  gazed  at  the  great  pile  her  cheeks  grew 
paler,  and  a  deep  sigh  escaped  from  her  lips. 

Then  she  placed  her  head  under  the  guillotine, — a  mo- 
mentary, breathless  silence  followed. 

Samson  lifted  up  the  pale  head  that  had  once  belonged 
to  the  Queen  of  France,  and  the  people  greeted  the  sight 
with  the  cry,  "  Long  live  the  republic !" 

That  same  evening  one  of  the  officials  of  the  republic 
made  up  an  account,  now  preserved  in  the  Imperial 
Library  of  Paris,  and  which  must  move  even  the  historian 


400  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

himself  to  tears.  It  runs  as  follows :  "  Cost  of  interments, 
conducted  by  Joly,  sexton  of  Madelaine  de  la  Ville  1'Eveque, 
of  persons  condemned  by  the  Tribunal  of  the  Committee 
of  Safety,  to  wit,  No.  1  .  .  .  ."  Then  follow  twenty- 
four  names  and  numbers,  and  then  "No.  25.  Widow 
Capet : 

For  the  coffin, 6  francs. 

For  digging  the  grave, 25  francs. " 

Beneath  are  the  words,  "  Seen  and  approved  by  me, 
President  of  the  Eevolutionary  Tribunal,  that  Joly,  sexton 
of  the  Madelaine,  receive  the  sum  of  two  hundred  and 
sixty-four  francs  from  the  National  Treasury,  Paris,  llth 
Brumaire.  Year  II.  of  the  French  Kepublic.  Herman, 
President." 

The  interment  of  the  Queen  of  France  did  not  cost  the 
republic  more  than  thirty-one  francs,  or  six  American 
dollars. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH. 

THE  "  one  and  indivisible  republic"  had  gained  the  vic- 
tory over  the  lilies  of  France.  In  their  dark  and  unknown 
graves,  in  the  Madelaine  churchyard,  King  Louis  XVI. 
and  Marie  Antoinette  slept  their  last  sleep.  The  monarchy 
had  perished  on  the  guillotine,  and  the  republicans,  the 
preachers  of  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity,  repeated  tri- 
umphantly :  "  Eoyalty  is  forever  extinguished,  and  the 
glorious  republic  is  the  rising  sun  which  is  to  bring  eter- 
nal deliverance  to  France." 

But,  in  spite  of  this  jubilant  cry,  the  foreheads  of  the 
republican  leaders  darkened,  and  a  peculiar  solicitude  took 
possession  of  their  hearts  when  their  eyes  fell  upon  the 
Temple — that  great,  dismal  building,  that  threw  its  dark 
shadows  over  the  sunny  path  of  the  republic.  Was  it  re- 
gret that  darkened  the  brows  of  the  regicides  as  they 
looked  upon  this  building,  which  had  been  the  sad  prison 
of  the  king  and  queen?  Those  hearts  of  bronze  knew  no 
regret ;  and  when  the  heroes  of  the  revolution  crossed  the 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  401 

Flace  de  la  Guillotine,  on  which  the  royal  victims  had  per- 
ished, their  eyes  flashed  more  proudly,  and  did  not  fall 
even  when  they  passed  by  the  Madelaine  churchyard. 

No,  it  was  not  the  recollection  of  the  deed  that  saddened 
the  brows  of  the  potentates  of  the  republic  when  they 
looked  at  the  dismal  Temple,  but  the  recollection  of  him 
who  was  not  yet  dead,  but  who  was  still  living  as  a  captive 
in  the  gloomy  state-prison  of  the  republic. 

This  prisoner  was  indeed  only  a  child  of  eight  years,  but 
the  legitimists — and  there  were  many  of  them  still  in  the 
country — called  him  the  King  of  France ;  and  priests  in 
loyal  Vendee,  when  they  had  finished  the  daily  mass  for 
the  murdered  king,  prayed  to  God,  with  uplifted  hands, 
for  grace  and  deliverance  for  the  young  captive  at  the  Tem- 
ple, the  young  king,  Louis  XVII. 

"  Le  roi  est  mort —  Vive  le  roi  !  " 

There  were,  it  must  be  confessed,  among  the  royalists  and 
legitimists  many  who  thought  of  the  young  prisoner  with 
bitterness  and  anger,  and  who  accused  and  blamed  him  as 
the  calumniator  of  his  mother!  As  if  the  child  knew 
what  he  was  doing  when,  at  the  command  of  his  tormentor 
Simon,  he  wrote  with  trembling  hand  his  name  upon  the 
paper  which  was  laid  before  him  in  the  open  court.  As  if 
the  poor  innocent  boy  knew  what  meaning  the  dreadful 
questions  had,  which  the  merciless  judges  put  to  him,  and 
which  he  answered  with  no,  or  with  yes,  according  as  his 
scrutinizing  looks  were  able  to  make  out  the  fitting  answer 
on  the  hard  face  of  Simon,  who  stood  near  him.  For  the 
unhappy  lad  had  already  learned  to  read  the  face  of  the 
turnkey,  and  knew  very  well  that  every  wrinkle  of  the  fore- 
head which  was  caused  by  him  must  be  atoned  for  with 
dreadful  sufferings,  abuses,  and  blows. 

The  poor  boy  was  afraid  of  the  heavy  fist  that  came  down 
like  an  iron  club  upon  his  back  and  even  on  his  face,  when 
he  said  any  thing  or  did  any  thing  that  displeased  Simon 
or  his  wife ;  and  therefore  he  sought  to  escape  this  cruel 
treatment,  confirming  with  his  yes  and  no  what  Simon  told 
the  judges,  and  what  the  child  in  his  innocence  did  not 
understand !  And  therefore  he  subscribed  the  paper  with- 
out reluctance  in  which  he  unconsciously  gave  evidence 
that  disgraced  his  mother. 


402  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

With  this  testimony  they  ventured  to  accuse  Marie  An- 
toinette of  infamy,  but  the  queen  gave  it  no  other  answer 
than  scornful  silence  and  a  proud  and  dignified  look,  be- 
fore which  the  judges  cast  down  their  eyes  in  shame. 
Then  after  a  pause  they  repeated  their  question,  and  de- 
manded an  answer. 

Marie  Antoinette  turned  her  proud  and  yet  gentle  glance 
to  the  women  who  had  taken  possession  in  dense  masses  of 
the  spectators'  gallery,  and  who  breathlessly  awaited  the 
answer  of  the  queen. 

"  I  appeal  to  all  mothers  present,"  she  said,  with  her  sad, 
sonorous  voice — "  I  ask  whether  they  hold  such  a  crime  to 
be  possible." 

No  one  gave  audible  reply,  but  a  murmur  passed  through 
the  ranks  of  the  spectators,  and  the  sharp  ear  of  the  judges 
understood  very  well  the  meaning  of  this  sound,  this  lan- 
guage of  sympathy,  and  it  seemed  to  them  wiser  to  let  the 
accusation  fall  rather  than  rouse  up  the  compassion  of  the 
mothers  still  more  in  behalf  of  the  queen.  Her  condem- 
nation was  an  event  fixed  upon,  the  "guilty"  had  been 
spoken  in  the  hearts  of  the  judges  long  before  it  came  to 
their  lips,  and  brought  the  queen  to  the  guillotine. 

Marie  Antoinette  referred  to  this  dreadful  charge  in  the 
letter  which  she  wrote  to  her  sister-in-law  Elizabeth  in  the 
night  before  her  execution,  a  letter  which  was  at  tiie  same 
time  her  testament  and  her  farewell  to  life. 

"May  my  son,"  she  wrote,  "never  forget  the  last  words 
of  his  father!  I  repeat  them  to  him  here  expressly:  'May 
he  never  seek  to  avenge  our  death!'  And  now  I  have  to 
speak  of  a  matter  which  surely  grieves  my  heart.  I  know 
what  trouble  this  child  must  have  occasioned  you.  Forgive 
him,  my  dear  sister ;  think  how  young  he  is,  and  how  easy 
it  is  to  induce  a  child  to  say  what  people  want  to  have  him 
say,  and  what  he  does  not  understand.  The  day  will  come, 
I  hope,  when  he  shall  better  comprehend  the  high  value 
of  your  goodness  and  tenderness  to  both  of  my  children."  * 

At  the  same  hour  when  Marie  Antoinette  was  writing 
this,  there  was  a  dispute  between  Simon  and  his  wife,  who 
had  been  ordered  by  the  Convention  to  watch  that  night, 

*Beauchesne,  "Louis  XVII.,  sa  Vie,  son  Agonie,"  etc.,  vol.  ii.,  p.  156,  fac- 
simile of  Marie  Antoinette's  letter. 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  403 

in  order  that  the  enraged  legitimists  might  not  make  an 
effort  to  abduct  the  son  of  the  queen.  They  were  con- 
tending whether  the  execution  would  really  occur  the  next 
day.  Simon,  in  a  jubilant  tone,  declared  his  conviction 
that  it  would,  while  his  wife  doubted.  "  She  is  still  hand- 
some," she  said,  gloomily,  "she  knows  how  to  talk  well, 
and  she  will  be  able  to  move  her  judges,  for  her  judges  are 
men." 

"  But  Justice  is  a  woman,  and  she  is  unshakable,"  cried 
Simon  emphatically,  and  as  his  wife  continued  to  contra- 
dict, Simon  proposed  a  bet.  The  wager  was,  that  if  the 
Queen  of  France  should  be  guillotined  the  next  noon,  the 
one  who  lost  should  furnish  brandy  and  cakes  the  next 
evening  for  a  jollification. 

The  next  morning  Simon  repaired  with  the  little  pris- 
oner to  the  platform  of  the  tower,  from  which  there  was  a 
free  lookout  over  the  streets,  and  where  they  could  plainly 
see  what  was  going  on  below. 

His  wife  meanwhile  had  left  the  Temple  at  early  dawn 
with  her  dreadful  knitting-work.  "  I  must  be  on  the  spot 
early  if  I  want  a  good  place  to-day,"  she  said,  "and  it 
would  be  a  real  misfortune  for  me,  if  I  should  not  see  the 
miserable  head  of  the  she-wolf  drop,  and  not  make  a  double 
stitch  in  my  stocking." 

"But  you  forget,  Jeanne  Marie,"  said  Simon,  with  a 
grin,  "  you  forget  that  you  lose  your  bet  if  you  make  the 
mark  in  your  stocking." 

"  I  would  rather  lose  all  the  bets  that  were  ever  made 
than  not  make  the  mark  in  my  stocking,"  cried  the  knit- 
ter, grimly.  "  I  would  rather  lose  my  wedding-dress  and 
my  marriage-ring  than  win  this  bet.  Go  up  to  the  plat- 
form with  the  young  wolf,  and  wait  for  me  there.  As  soon 
as  I  have  made  the  mark  in  my  stocking,  I  will  run  home 
and  show  it  to  you." 

"It  is  too  bad  that  I  cannot  go  with  you,"  said  Simon, 
sighing.  "  I  wish  I  had  never  undertaken  the  business  of 
bringing  up  the  little  Capet.  It  is  hateful  work,  for  I  can 
never  leave  the  Temple,  and  I  am  just  as  much  a  prisoner 
as  he  is." 

"The  republic  has  done  you  a  great  honor,"  said  the 
knitter,  solemnly.  "  She  has  confidence  that  you  will 


404  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

make  out  of  the  son  of  the  she-wolf,  out  of  the  worthless 
scion  of  tyrants,  a  son  of  the  republic,  a  useful  citizen." 

"Good  talk,"  growled  Simon,  "and  you  have  only  the 
honor  of  the  affair,  and  the  satisfaction  besides  of  plaguing 
the  son  of  our  tyrants  a  bit." 

"  Of  taking  revenge,"  struck  in  the  knitter — "  revenge  for 
the  misery  which  my  family  has  suffered  from  the  tyrants." 

"But  I,"  continued  Simon,  "I  have  certainly  the  honor 
of  the  thing,  but  I  have  also  the  burden.  In  the  first 
place,  it  is  very  hard  to  make  a  strong  and  useful  citizen 
of  the  republic  out  of  this  whining,  tender,  and  sensitive 
urchin.  And  then  again  it  is  very  unpleasant  and  dis- 
agreeable to  have  to  live  like  a  prisoner  always." 

''Listen,  Simon,  hear  what  I  promise  you,"  said  Jeanne 
Marie,  laying  her  hard  brown  hand  upon  Simon's  shoulder. 
"  If  the  Austrian  atones  to-day  for  her  crimes,  and  the  exe- 
cutioner shows  her  head  to  the  avenged  people,  I  will  give 
up  my  place  at  the  guillotine  as  a  knitter,  will  remain  with 
you  here  in  the  Temple,  will  take  my  share  in  the  bring- 
ing up  of  the  little  Capet,  and  you  yourself  shall  make  the 
proposition  to  the  supervisor,  that  your  wife  like  yourself 
shall  not  be  allowed  to  leave  the  Temple." 

"  That  is  something  I  like  to  hear,"  cried  Simon,  de- 
lighted; "  there  will  then  be  at  least  two  of  us  to  bear  the 
tedium  of  imprisonment.  So  go,  Jenne  Marie,  take  your 
place  for  the  last  time  at  the  guillotine,  for  I  tell  you,  you 
will  lose  your  bet;  you  will  have  to  furnish  brandy  and 
cakes,  and  stay  with  me  here  at  the  Temple  to  bring  up 
the  little  Capet.  So  go,  I  will  go  up  to  the  platform  with 
the  boy,  and  wait  there  for  your  return." 

He  called  the  little  Louis  Charles,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  tottering  rush-chair  in  his  room,  and  anxiously  waiting 
to  see  whether  "  his  master."  was  going  to  take  him  that 
day  out  of  the  dismal,  dark  prison. 

"Come,  little  Capet,"  cried  Simon,  pushing  the  door 
open  with  his  foot — "  come,  we  will  go  up  on  the  platform. 
You  can  take  your  ball  along  and  play,  and  I  advise  you  to 
be  right  merry  to-day,  for  it  is  a  holiday  for  the  republic, 
and  I  am  going  to  teach  you  to  be  a  good  republican.  So 
if  you  want  to  keep  your  back  free  from  my  straps,  be  jolly 
to-day,  and  play  with  your  ball." 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  405 

"Oh!"  cried  the  child,  springing  forward  merrily  with 
his  ball — "  oh !  only  be  good,  master,  I  will  certainly  be 
merry,  for  I  like  to  play  with  my  ball,  and  I  am  ever  so 
fond  of  holidays.  What  kind  of  one  is  it  to-day?" 

"  No  matter  about  your  knowing  that,  you  little  toad!" 
growled  Simon,  who  in  spite  of  himself  had  compassion  on 
the  pale  face  of  the  child  that  looked  up  to  him  so  in- 
nocently and  inquiringly.  "Up  the  staircase  quick,  and 
play  and  laugh." 

Louis  obeyed  with  a  smile,  sprang  up  the  high  steps  of 
the  winding  stairway,  jumped  about  on  the  platform, 
throwing  his  ball  up  in  the  air,  and  shouting  aloud  when 
he  caught  it  again  with  his  little  thin  hands. 

Meanwhile  Simon  stood  leaning  on  the  iron  railing  that 
surrounded  the  platform,  looking  with  his  searching  eyes 
down  into  the  street  which  far  below  ran  between  the  dark 
houses  like  a  narrow  ribbon. 

The  wind  now  brought  the  sustained  notes  of  the  drums 
to  him;  then  he  saw  the  street  below  suddenly  filled  with 
a  dark  mass,  as  if  the  ribbon  were  turning  into  crape  that 
was  filling  all  Paris. 

"  The  people  are  in  motion  by  thousands,"  cried  Simon, 
delightedly,  "  and  all  rushing  to  the  Place  de  la  Kevolution. 
I  shall  win  my  bet." 

And  again  he  listened  to  the  sound  that  came  up  to 
him,  now  resembling  the  beat  of  drums,  and  now  a  loud 
cry  of  exultation. 

"Now  I  think  Samson  must  be  striking  the  head  off  the 
wolf!"  growled  Simon  to  himself,  "and  the  people  are 
shouting  with  pleasure,  and  Jeanne  Marie  is  making  a 
mark  in  her  stocking,  and  I,  poor  fellow,  cannot  be  there 
to  see  the  fine  show !  And  this  miserable  brat  is  to  blame 
for  it,"  he  cried  aloud,  turning  suddenly  round  to  the 
child  who  was  playing  behind  him  with  his  ball,  and  giv- 
ing him  a  savage  blow  with  his  fist. 

"  You  are  the  cause,  stupid,  that  I  cannot  be  there  to- 
day!" 

"Master,"  said  the  child,  beseechingly,  lifting  his  great 
blue  eyes,  in  which  the  tears  were  standing,  up  to  his  tor- 
mentor— "  master,  I  beg  your  forgiveness  if  I  have  troubled 
you." 


406  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"  Yes,  you  have  troubled  me,"  growled  Simon,  "  and  you 
shall  get  your  thanks  for  it  in  a  way  you  will  not  like. 
Quick,  away  with  your  tears,  go  on  with  your  play  if  you 
do  not  want  your  back  to  make  acquaintance  with  my 
straps.  Merry,  I  say,  little  Capet,  merry!" 

The  boy  hastily  dried  his  tears,  laughed  aloud  as  a  proof 
of  his  merriment,  and  began  to  jump  about  again  and  to 
play  with  his  ball. 

Simon  listened  again,  and  looked  down  longingly  into 
the  streets,  which  were  now  black  with  the  surging  masses 
of  men.  Steps  were  now  heard  upon  the  stairway,  and 
Jeanne  Marie  presently  appeared  on  the  platform.  With 
a  grave,  solemn  air  she  walked  up  to  her  husband,  and 
gave  him  her  stocking,  on  which  three  great  drops  of  blood 
were  visible. 

"That  is  her  blood,"  she  said,  calmly.  "Thank  God,  I 
have  lost  the  bet!" 

"What  sort  of  a  bet  was  it?"  asked  the  boy,  with  a 
smile,  and  giving  his  ball  a  merry  toss. 

"The  bet  is  nothing  to  you,"  answered  Jeanne  Marie, 
"  but  if  you  are  good  you  will  get  something  by  and  by, 
and  have  a  share  in  the  payment  of  the  bet!" 

That  evening  there  was  a  little  feast  prepared  in  the 
gloomy  rooms  of  the  Simons.  The  wife  paid  the  wager, 
for  the  Queen  of  France  had  really  been  executed,  and  she 
had  lost.  She  provided  two  bottles  of  brandy  and  a  plum 
cake,  and  the  son  of  the  murdered  queen  had  a  share  in 
the  entertainment.  He  ate  apiece  of  the  plum  cake,  and, 
under  the  fear  of  being  beaten  if  he  refused,  he  drank 
some  of  the  brandy  that  was  so  offensive  to  him. 

From  this  time  the  unhappy  boy  remained  under  the 
hands  of  the  cobbler  and  his  cruel  wife.  In  vain  his  aunt 
and  his  sister  implored  their  keepers  to  be  allowed  to  see 
and  to  talk  with  the  prince.  They  were  put  off  with 
abusive  words,  and  only  now  and  then  could  they  see  him 
a  moment  through  a  crack  in  the  door,  as  he  passed  by 
with  Simon,  on  his  way  to  the  winding  staircase.  At 
times  there  came  up  through  the  floor  of  their  room — for 
Simon,  who  was  no  longer  porter,  had  the  rooms  directly 
beneath  these  occupied  by  the  princesses — the  crying  and 
moaning  of  the  little  prince,  rilling  their  hearts  with  pain 


KING    LOUIS   THE  SEVENTEENTH.  407 

and  bitterness,  for  they  knew  that  the  horrible  keeper  of 
the  dauphin  was  giving  his  pitiable  ward  a  lesson,  i.e., 
he  was  beating  and  maltreating  him.  Why?  For  what 
reason?  One  day,  perhaps,  because  he  refused  to  drink 
brandy,  the  next  because  he  looked  sad,  or  because  he  asked 
to  be  taken  to  his  mother  or  the  princesses,  or  because  he 
refused  to  sing  the  ribald  songs  which  Simon  tried  to  teach 
him  about  Madame  Veto  or  the  Austrian  she-wolf. 

In  this  one  thing  the  boy  remained  immovable;  neither 
threats,  abuse,  nor  blows  would  force  him  to  sing  scurrilous 
songs  about  his  mother.  Out  of  fear  he  did  every  thing  else 
that  his  tormentor  bade  him.  He  sung  the  Marseillaise, 
and  the  Qa  ira,  he  danced  the  Carmagnole,  uttered  his  loud 
hurrahs  as  Simon  drank  a  glass  of  brandy  to  the  weal  of 
the  one  and  indivisible  republic ;  but  when  he  was  ordered 
to  sing  mocking  songs  about  Madame  Veto,  he  kept  a 
stubborn  silence,  and  nothing  was  able  to  overcome  what 
Simon  called  the  "  obstinacy  of  the  little  viper." 

Nothing,  neither  blows  nor  kicks,  neither  threats  nor 
promises!  The  child  no  longer  ventured  to  ask  after  its 
mother,  or  to  beg  to  be  taken  to  his  aunt  and  sister,  but 
once  in  a  while  when  he  heard  a  noise  in  the  room  above, 
he  would  fix  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling  for  a  long  time,  and 
with  an  expression  of  longing,  and  when  he  dropped  them 
again  the  clear  tears  ran  over  his  cheeks  like  transparent 
pearls. 

He  did  not  speak  about  his  mother,  but  he  thought  of 
her,  and  once  in  the  night  he  seemed  to  be  dreaming  of 
her,  for  he  raised  himself  up  in  bed,  kneeled  down  upon 
the  miserable,  dirty  mattress,  folded  his  hands  and  began 
to  repeat  in  a  loud  voice  the  prayer  which  his  mother  had 
taught  him. 

The  noise  awakened  Simon,  who  roused  his  wife,  to  let 
her  listen  to  the  "superstitious  little  monkey,"  whom  he 
would  cure  forever  of  his  folly. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed,  took  a  pitcher  of  cold  water,  that 
was  standing  on  the  table,  and  poured  it  upon  the  head  of 
the  kneeling  boy.  Louis  Charles  awoke  with  a  shriek,  and 
crouched  down  in  alarm.  But  the  whole  bed  was  wet, 
only  the  pillow  had  been  spared.  The  boy  rose  carefully, 
took  the  pillow,  carried  it  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 


408  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

sat  down  upon  it.  But  his  teeth  chattered  with  the  cold 
in  spite  of  himself.  This  awakened  Simon  a  second  time, 
just  as  he  was  dropping  asleep.  With  a  wild  curse  he 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  dressed  imself. 

"  That  is  right!"  cried  Jeanne  Marie,  "  bring  the  brat  to 
his  senses.  Make  little  Capet  know  that  he  is  to  behave 
respectfully." 

And  Simon  did  make  the  poor  boy  understand  it,  sitting 
on  the  pillow,  shivering  in  his  wet  shirt.  He  seized  him 
by  his  shoulders,  shook  him  angrily  from  one  side  to  an- 
other, and  shouted :  "  I  will  teach  you  to  say  your  Pater 
Noster,  and  get  up  in  the  night  like  a  Trappist!" 

The  boy  remaining  silent,  Simon's  rage,  which  knew  no 
bounds  when  he  thought  he  was  defied  or  met  with  stub- 
bornness, entirely  took  possession  of  him.  He  caught  up 
his  boot,  whose  sole  was  secured  with  large  iron  nails,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  hurling  it  at  the  head  of  the  unoffending 
boy,  when  the  latter  seized  his  arm  with  convulsive  energy. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  you,  master,  that  you  should  kill 
me?"  cried  the  little  Louis. 

"Kill  you,  you  wolf -brat!"  roared  Simon.  .  "As  if  I 
wanted  to,  or  ever  had  wanted  to!  Oh,  the  miserable 
viper !  So  you  do  not  know  that  if  I  only  took  fairly  hold 
of  your  neck,  you  never  would  scream  again!" 

And  with  his  powerful  arm  he  seized  the  boy  and  hurled 
him  upon  the  water-soaked  bed.  Louis  lay  down  without 
a  word,  without  a  complaint,  and  remained  there  shivering 
and  with  chattering  teeth  until  morning.* 

From  this  period  there  was  a  change  in  the  boy.  Until 
this  time  his  moist  eyes  had  fixed  themselves  with  a  sup- 
plicating look  upon  his  tormentors  when  they  threatened 
him,  but  after  this  they  were  cast  down.  Until  now  he 
had  always  sought  to  fulfil  his  master's  commands  with 
great  alacrity ;  afterward  he  was  indifferent,  and  made  no 
effort  to  do  so,  for  he  had  learned  that  it  was  all  to  no 
purpose,  and  that  he  must  accept  a  fate  of  slavery  and 
affliction.  The  face  of  the  child,  once  so  rosy  and  smil- 
ing, now  took  on  a  sad,  melancholy  expression,  his  cheeks 
were  pale  and  sunken.  The  attractive  features  of  his  face 
were  disfigured,  his  limbs  grew  to  a  length  disproportionate 

*Beauchesne,  "Louis  XVII.,"  vol.  ii.,  p.  185. 


KING    LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  409 

to  his  age;  his  back  bent  into  a  bow,  as  if  he  felt  the  bur- 
den of  the  humiliations  which  were  thrown  upon  him. 
When  the  child  had  learned  that  every  thing  that  he  said 
was  twisted,  turned  into  ridicule,  and  made  the  cause  of 
chastisement,  he  was  entirely  silent,  and  only  with  the 
greatest  pains  could  a  word  be  drawn  from  him. 

This  silence  exasperated  Simon,  and  made  him  furiously 
command  the  boy  to  sing,  laugh,  and  be  merry.  At  other 
times  he  would  order  Louis  to  be  silent  and  motionless  for 
hours,  and  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  bird-cage,  which 
was  on  the  table,  and  which  was  the  only  thing  left  that 
the  little  fellow  could  enjoy. 

This  cage  held  a  number  of  birds,  and  a  piece  of  mech- 
anism, an  automaton  in  the  form  of  a  bird,  which  ate  like 
a  living  creature,  drank,  hopped  from  one  bar  to  another, 
opened  his  bill,  and  sang  the  air  which  was  so  popular  be- 
fore the  revolution,  "  Oh,  Richard!  oh,  my  king!" 

This  article  had  been  found  among  the  royal  apparel,  and 
a  compassionate  official  guard  had  told  Simon  about  it,  and 
induced  him  to  apply  to  the  authorities  in  charge  of  the 
Temple  and  ask  for  it  for  the  little  Capet. 

Simon,  who,  as  well  as  his  wife,  could  no  more  leave  the 
building  than  their  prisoner  could,  took  this  solitary,  con- 
fined life  very  seriously,  and  longed  for  some  way  to  miti- 
gate the  tedium.  He  therefore  availed  himself  gladly  of 
the  official's  proposition,  and  asked  for  the  automaton, 
which  was  granted  by  the  authorities.  The  boy  was  de- 
lighted with  the  toy  at  first,  and  a  pleased  smile  flitted 
over  his  face.  But  he  soon  became  tired  of  playing  with 
the  thing  and  paid  no  attention  to  it. 

"Does  not  your  bird  please  you  any  longer?"  asked 
Miller,  the  official,  as  he  came  one  day  to  inspect  the 
Temple.  "  Do  you  have  no  more  sport  with  your  canary?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  and  as  Simon  was  in  the  next 
room  and  so  could  not  strike  him,  he  ventured  to  speak. 

"It  is  no  bird,"  he  answered  softly  and  quickly.  "But 
I  should  like  to  have  a  bird." 

The  good  inspector  nodded  to  the  boy,  and  then  went 
out  to  have  a  long  talk  with  Simon,  and  so  to  avert  any 
suspicion  of  being  too  familiar  with,  or  too  fond  of,  the 
prince.  But  after  leaving  the  Temple  he  went  to  his 


410  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

friends  and  acquaintances,  and  told  them,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  about  the  little  prisoner  in  the  Temple,  the  "  dauphin," 
as  the  royalists  used  always  to  call  him  beneath  their  breath, 
and  how  he  wanted  a  living  bird.  Every  one  was  glad  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  the  wish  of  the"  dauphin, 
and  on  the  next  day  Miller  brought  the  prince  a  cage,  in 
which  were  fourteen  real  canaries. 

"Ah!  those  are  real  birds,"  cried  the  child,  as  he  took 
them  one  after  the  other  and  kissed  them.  The  playing  of 
the  birds,  which  all  lived  in  one  great  cage,  together  with 
the  automaton,  was  now  the  only  pleasure  of  the  boy.  He 
began  to  tame  them,  and  among  the  little  feathered  flock 
he  found  one  to  which  he  was  especially  drawn,  because  he 
was  more  quiet  than  the  others,  allowed  itself  to  be  easily 
caught,  sat  still  on  the  finger  of  the  prince,  and,  turning 
his  little  black  eyes  to  the  boy,  warbled  a  little,  sweet 
melody.  At  such  moments  the  countenance  of  the  boy 
beamed  as  it  had  done  in  the  days  of  his  happiness;  his 
cheeks  flushed  with  color,  and  out  of  his  large  blue  eyes, 
which  rested  with  inexpressible  tenderness  upon  the  bird, 
there  issued  the  rays  of  intelligence  and  sensibility.  He 
had  now  something  to  love,  something  to  which  all  his 
gentle  sympathies  could  flow  out,  which  hitherto  had  all 
been  suppressed  beneath  the  harsh  treatment  of  his 
keepers. 

He  was  no  longer  alone,  he  was  no  longer  joyless !  His 
little  friend  was  there  in  the  great  cage  among  the  twitter- 
ing companions  who  were  indifferent  to  the  little  prince. 
In  order  to  know  him  at  first  sight,  and  always  to  be  able 
to  recognize  him,  Louis  took  the  rose-colored  ribbon  from 
the  neck  of  the  automaton,  and  tied  it  around  the  neck 
of  his  darling.  The  bird  sang  merrily  at  this,  and  seemed 
to  be  as  well  pleased  with  the  decoration  as  if  it  had  been 
an  order  which  King  Louis  of  France  was  hanging  around 
the  neck  of  a  favorite  courtier. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  for  the  boy  that  Simon  himself 
was  fond  of  birds,  else  the  objections  of  his  wife  would  soon 
have  robbed  the  little  fellow  of  his  last-remaining  comfort. 
It  was  for  the  keeper  a  little  source  of  amusement,  an  in- 
terruption in  the  dreadful  monotony  of  his  life.  The  birds 
were  allowed  to  stay  therefore,  and  their  singing  and 


KING    LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  411 

twittering  animated  a  little  the  dark,  silent  rooms,  and  re- 
minded him  of  the  spring,  the  fresh  air,  the  green  trees! 

But  very  soon  this  source  of  comfort  and  cheer  was  to 
be  banished  from  the  dismal  place!  On  the  19th  of  De- 
cember, 1793,  the  inspectors  of  the  Temple  made  their 
rounds.  Just  at  the  moment  when  they  entered  the  room 
of  the  little  Louis  Capet,  the  automaton  began  to  sing  with 
his  loud,  penetrating  voice,  "Oh!  Eichard,  oh  my  king!" 

The  officials  came  to  a  halt  upon  the  threshold,  as 
though  petrified  at  this  unheard-of  license,  and  fixed  their 
cold,  angry  looks  now  upon  the  birds,  now  upon  the  boy, 
who  was  sitting  upon  his  rush-chair  before  the  cage,  look- 
ing at  the  birds  with  beaming  eyes. 

A  second  time  the  automaton  began  the  unfortunate  air, 
and  the  exasperated  inspectors  strode  up  to  the  cage. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  asked  one  of  them.  "How 
does  any  one  dare  to  keep  up,  in  the  glorious  republic,  such 
worthless  reminders  of  the  cursed  monarchy." 

"Only  see,"  cried  another — "see  the  order  that  one  of 
the  birds  is  wearing.  It  is  plain  that  the  old  passion  of 
royalty  still  lurks  here,  for  even  here  ribbons  are  given 
away  as  signs  of  distinction.  The  republic  forbids  such 
things,  and  we  will  not  suffer  such  infamy." 

The  inspector  put  his  hand  into  the  cage,  seized  the  lit- 
tle canary-bird  with  the  red  ribbon,  and  squeezed  him  so 
closely  that  the  poor  little  creature  gave  one  faint  chirp 
and  died.  The  man  drew  him  out,  and  hurled  him 
against  the  wall  of  the  room. 

The  little  boy  said  not  a  word,  he  uttered  not  a  com- 
plaint; he  gazed  with  widely-opened  eyes  at  his  dead 
favorite,  and  two  great  tears  slowly  trickled  down  his  pale 
cheeks. 

The  next  day  the  inspectors  gave  a  report  of  this  occur- 
rence, couched  in  terms  of  worthy  indignation,  and  all 
hearts  were  stirred  with  righteous  anger  at  the  story  of 
the  automaton  that  sang  the  royal  aria,  and  of  the  living 
bird  that  wore  the  badge  of  an  order  about  its  neck.  They 
were  convinced  that  the  secret  royalists  were  connected 
with  this  thing,  and  it  was  registered  in  the  communal 
acts  as  "  the  conspiracy  of  the  canary-bird." 

The  little  winged  conspirators,  the  automaton  as  well  as 
27 


412  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

the  living  birds,  were  of  course  instantly  removed  from  the 
Temple ;  and  Simon  had  the  double  vexation  of  receiving 
a  reprimand  from  the  authorities,  and  then  the  losing  his 
little  merry  companions  from  the  prison.  It  was  all  the 
fault  of  this  little,  good-for-nothing  boy,  who  knew  how  to 
make  long  faces,  and  allowed  himself  to  waken  and  dis- 
turb his  master  in  the  night  by  his  crying  and  sobbing. 

"The  worthless  viper  has  spoiled  my  sleep  for  me," 
growled  Simon  the  next  morning.  "  My  head  is  as  heavy 
as  a  bomb,  and  I  shall  have  to  take  a  foot-bath,  to  draw 
the  blood  away  from  my  ears." 

Jeanne  Marie  silently  carried  her  husband  the  leaden 
foot-bath,  with  the  steaming  water,  and  then  drew  back 
into  the  corner,  in  whose  dismal  shadow  she  often  sat  for 
hours,  gazing  idly  at  her  "  calendar  of  the  revolution,"  the 
long  stocking,  on  which  traces  of  the  blood  of  the  queen 
were  still  visible. 

Meanwhile,  Simon  took  his  foot-bath,  and  while  he  did 
so,  his  wicked,  malicious  eyes  now  fell  upon  his  wife,  who 
had  once  been  so  cheerful  and  resolute,  and  who  now  had 
grown  so  sad  and  broken,  now  upon  the  boy,  who,  since 
yesterday,  when  his  canaries  had  been  taken  from  him,  had 
spoken  not  a  word,  or  made  a  sound,  and  who  sat  motion- 
less upon  the  rush-chair,  folding  his  hands  in  his  lap,  and 
gazing  at  the  place  where  his  dead  bird  lay  yesterday. 

"This  life  would  make  one  crazy,"  growled  Simon,  with 
the  tone  of  a  hyena.  "  Capet,"  he  cried  aloud,  "  take  the 
towel  and  warm  it  at  the  chimney-fire,  so  as  to  wipe  my 
feet." 

Louis  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  took  the  towel  and 
crept  to  the  chimney-fire  to  spread  it  out  and  warm  it ;  but 
the  glow  of  the  coals  burned  his  little  thin  hands  so  badly, 
that  he  let  the  cloth  fall  into  the  fire,  and  before  the  trem- 
bling, frightened  child  had  time  to  draw  it  back,  the  towel 
had  kindled  and  was  burning  brightly. 

Simon  uttered  a  howl  of  rage,  and,  as  with  his  feet  in 
the  water  he  was  not  able  to  reach  the  boy,  he  heaped 
curses  and  abuse  upon  him,  and  not  alone  on  him,  but  on 
his  father  and  mother,  till  his  voice  was  hoarse,  and  he  was 
exhausted  with  this  outpouring  of  his  wrath. 

Deceived  by  the  quiet  which  followed,  little  Louis  took 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  413 

another  towel,  warmed  it  carefully  at  the  chimney,  and 
then  cautiously  approached  his  master,  to  wipe  his  feet. 
Simon  extended  them  to  the  boy  and  let  himself  be  served 
as  if  by  a  little  slave;  but  just  as  soon  as  his  feet  were  dry 
he  kicked  the  boy's  head  with  such  force  that  without  a 
cry  Louis  fell  down,  striking  his  head  violently  on  the 
floor.  Perhaps  it  was  this  pitiful  spectacle  that  exasper- 
ated the  cobbler  still  more.  He  beat  the  unconscious  boy, 
roused  him  with  kicks  and  with  the  noise  of  his  curses, 
raised  his  clinched  fists  and  swore  that  he  would  now  dash 
the  viper  in  pieces,  when  he  suddenly  felt  his  hands  grasped 
as  in  iron  clamps,  and  to  his  boundless  astonishment  saw 
before  him  the  pale,  grim  face  of  his  wife,  who  had  come 
out  from  her  corner  and  fixed  her  black,  glistening  eyes 
upon  him,  while  she  held  his  hands  firmly. 

"What  is  it,  Jeanne  Marie?"  said  Simon,  surprised! 
"  why  are  you  holding  me  so?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  want  you  to  beat  him  to  death,"  she 
said,  with  a  hoarse,  rough  voice. 

He  broke  out  into  loud  laughter.  "  I  really  believe  that 
the  knitter  of  the  guillotine  has  pity  on  the  son  of  the  she- 
wolf." 

A  convulsive  quiver  passed  through  her  whole  frame. 
A  singular,  gurgling  sound  came  from  her  chest;  she  put 
both  her  hands  to  her  neck  and  tore  the  little  kerchief  off, 
as  if  it  were  tied  tight  enough  to  strangle  her. 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  suppressed  tone,  "no  compassion 
on  the  wolf's  brood!  But  if  you  beat  him  to  death,  they 
will  have  to  bring  you  to  the  guillotine,  that  it  may  not 
appear  as  if  they  had  ordered  you  to  kill  the  little  Capet." 

"True,"  said  Simon,  "you  are  right,  and  I  thank  you, 
Jeanne  Marie,  that  you  may  remind  me  of  it.  It  shows 
that  you  love  me  still,  although  you  are  always  so  quiet. 
Yes,  yes,  I  will  be  more  careful ;  I  will  take  care  to  beat 
the  little  serpent  only  so  much  that  it  may  not  bite,  but 
cannot  die." 

Jeanne  Marie  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  in  the  corner 
again,  and  took  up  her  stocking,  without  touching  the 
needles,  however,  and  going  on  with  her  work. 

"Get  up,  you  cursed  snake!"  growled  Simon,  "get  up 
and  go  out  of  my  sight,  and  do  not  stir  me  up  again." 


414  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

The  child  rose  slowly  from  the  floor,  crept  to  the  wash- 
basin and  with  his  trembling,  bruised  hands  wiped  away 
the  blood  that  was  flowing  out  of  his  nose  and  mouth. 

A  loud,  gurgling  sound  came  from  the  corner  where 
Jeanne  Marie  sat.  It  seemed  half  like  a  cry,  half  like  a 
sob.  When  Simon  looked  around,  his  wife  lay  pale  and 
motionless  on  the  floor;  she  had  sunk  from  her  chair  in  a 
swoon. 

Simon  grasped  her  in  his  strong  arms  and  carried  her  to 
the  bed,  laid  her  gently  and  carefully  down,  and  busied 
himself  about  her,  showing  a  manifest  anxiety. 

"  She  must  not  die,"  he  murmured,  rubbing  her  temples 
with  salt  water;  "  she  must  not  leave  me  alone  in  this  hor- 
rible prison  and  with  this  dreadful  child. — Jeanne  Marie, 
wake  up,  come  to  yourself!"  She  opened  her  eyes,  and 
gazed  at  her  husband  with  wild,  searching  looks. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Jeanne  Marie?"  he  asked.  "  Have 
you  pain?  Are  you  sick?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  sick,  I  am  in  pain." 

"I  will  go  to  bring  you  a  physician,  you  shall  not  die! 
No,  no,  you  shall  not  die,  you  shall  have  a  physician. 
The  Hotel  Dieu  is  very  near,  they  will  certainly  allow 
me  to  go  as  far  as  there,  and  bring  a  doctor  for  my  dear 
Jeanne." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  hastening  away,  but  Jeanne 
Marie  held  him  fast.  "  Kemain  here,"  she  murmured,  "  do 
not  let  me  be  alone  with  him — I  am  afraid  of  him!" 

"Of  whom?"  asked  Simon,  astonished;  and  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  looks  of  his  wife,  they  rested  on  the  boy,  who 
was  still  busy  in  checking  the  blood  that  was  flowing  freely 
from  his  swollen  nose. 

"Of  him!"  asked  Simon,  in  amazement. 

Jeanne  Marie  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  whispered,  "I  am 
afraid  of  him,  and  I  do  not  want  to  remain  alone  with 
him,  for  he  would  kill  me."  Simon  burst  into  a  loud, 
hoarse  laugh.  "  Now  I  see  that  you  are  really  sick,  and 
the  doctor  shall  come  at  once.  But  they  certainly  will  not 
let  me  leave  this  place,  for  this  despicable  brat  has  made  us 
both  prisoners,  the  miserable,  good-for-nothing  thing!" 

"  Send  him  away;  let  him  go  into  his  own  room,"  whis- 
pered Jeanne  Marie.  "I  cannot  bear  to  see  him;  he 


KING   LOUIS    THE  SEVENTEENTH.  415 

poisons  my  blood.  Send  him  away,  for  I  shall  be  crazy  if 
I  have  to  look  at  him  longer." 

"Away  with  you,  you  viper!"  roared  Simon;  and  the 
boy,  who  knew  that  he  was  meant — that  the  term  viper 
was  applied  only  to  him — hastily  dried  his  tears,  and  slipped 
through  the  open  door  into  his  little  dark  apartment. 

"Now  I  will  run  and  call  the  porter,"  said  Simon,  hur- 
riedly ;  "  he  shall  send  some  one  to  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and 
bring  a  physician  for  my  poor,  dear,  sick  Jeanne  Marie." 

He  hastened  out,  and  turned  back,  after  a  few  minutes, 
with  the  report  that  the  porter  himself  had  gone  to  bring 
a  doctor,  and  that  help  would  come  at  once. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Jeanne  Marie ;  "no  doctor  can  help 
me,  and  there  is  nothing  at  all  that  I  want.  Only  give  me 
something  to  drink,  Simon,  for  my  throat  burns  like  fire, 
and  then  call  little  Capet  in,  for  in  his  dark  room  his  eyes 
glisten  like  stars,  and  I  cannot  bear  them." 

Simon  shook  his  head  sadly ;  and,  while  holding  a  glass 
of  cold  water  to  her  lips,  he  said  to  himself:  "Jeanne 
Marie  is  really  sick!  She  has  a  fever!  But  we  must  do 
what  she  orders,  else  it  will  come  to  delirium,  and  she 
might  become  insane." 

And  with  a  loud  voice  he  called,  "Capet,  Capet!  come 
here,  come  here!  you  viper,  you  wolf's  cub,  come  here!" 

The  boy  obeyed  the  command,  slowly  crept  into  the 
room,  and  sat  down  in  the  rush-chair  in  the  corner.  "  He 
shall  not  look  at  me,"  shrieked  Jeanne  Marie ;  "  he  shall  not 
look  into  my  heart  with  his  dreadful  blue  eyes,  it  hurts 
me — oh !  so  much,  so  much !" 

"Turn  around,  you  viper!"  said  Simon.     "Look  round 

this  way  again,  or  I'll  tear  your  eyes  out  of  your  head! 
j " 

The  door  leading  to  the  corridor  now  opened,  and  an  old 
man,  leaning  on  a  cane,  entered,  wearing  on  his  head  a 
powdered  peruke,  his  bent  form  covered  with  a  black  satin 
coat,  beneath  which  a  satin  vest  was  seen;  on  his  feet,  silk 
stockings  and  buckled  shoes;  in  his  lace-encircled  hand,  a 
cane  with  a  gold  head. 

"Well,"  cried  Simon,  with  a  laugh,  "what  sort  of  an 
old  scarecrow  is  that?  And  what  does  it  want  here?" 

"The  scarecrow  wants  nothing  of  you,"  said   the  old 


416  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

man,  in  a  kindly  way,  "  but  you  want  something  of  it,  cit- 
izen. You  have  sent  for  me. " 

"Ah!  so  you  are  the  doctor  from  the  Hotel  Dieu." 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  I  am  Citizen  Naudin."  . 

"Naudin,  the  chief  physician  at  the  Hotel  Dieu?"  cried 
Simon.  "And  you  come  yourself  to  see  my  sick  wife?" 

"  Does  that  surprise  you,  Citizen  Simon?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  surprises  me.  For  I  have  been  told  so 
often  that  Citizen  Naudin,  the  greatest  and  most  skilful 
physician  in  all  Paris,  never  leaves  the  Hotel  Dieu ;  that 
the  aristocrats  and  ci-devants  have  begged  him  in  vain  to 
attend  them,  and  that  even  the  Austrian  woman,  in  the 
days  when  she  was  queen,  sent  to  no  purpose  to  the  cele- 
brated Naudin,  and  begged  him  to  come  to  Versailles. 
We  heard  that  the  answer  was:  'I  am  the  physician  of  the 
poor  and  the  sick  in  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  whoever  is  poor 
and  sick  may  come  to  me  in  the  house  which  bears  the 
name  of  God.  But  whoever  is  too  rich  and  too  well  for 
that,  must  seek  another  doctor,  for  my  duties  with  the  sick 
do  not  allow  me  to  leave  the  Hotel  Dieu.'  And  after  that 
answer  reached  the  palace — so  the  great  Doctor  Marat  told 
me — the  queen  had  her  horses  harnessed,  and  drove  to 
Paris,  to  consult  Doctor  Naudin  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  to 
receive  his  advice.  Is  the  story  really  true,  and  are  you 
Doctor  Naudin?" 

"  The  story  is  strictly  true,  and,  my  friend,  I  am  Doctor 
Naudin." 

"  And  you  now  leave  the  H6tel  Dieu  to  come  and  visit 
my  sick  wife?"  asked  Simon,  with  a  pleasant  look  and  a 
flattered  manner. 

"  Does  your  wife  not  belong  to  my  poor  and  sick?"  asked 
the  doctor.  "  Is  she  not  a  woman  of  the  people,  this  dear 
French  people,  to  whom  I  have  devoted  my  services  and 
my  life?  For  a  queen  Doctor  Naudin  might  not  leave  his 
hospital,  but  for  a  woman  of  the  people  he  does  it.  And 
now,  citizen,  let  me  see  your  sick  wife,  for  I  did  not  come 
here  to  talk." 

Without  waiting  for  Simon's  answer,  the  physician 
walked  up  to  the  bed,  sat  down  on  the  chair  in  front  of 
it,  and  began  at  once  to  investigate  the  condition  of 
the  woman,  who  reached  him  her  feverish  hand,  and, 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  417 

with  an  almost  inaudible  voice,  answered  his  professional 
questions. 

The  cobbler  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  directed 
his  little  cunning  eyes  to  the  physician  in  amazement  and 
admiration.  Behind  him,  in  the  corner,  sat  the  son  of 
Marie  Antoinette,  humiliated,  still,  and  motionless.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  the  injunction  of  Jeanne  Marie,  he  had  turned 
around,  and  was  looking  toward  the  bed ;  but  not  to  the 
knitter  of  the  guillotine  were  his  looks  directed,  but  to 
this  venerable  old  gentleman  with  his  powdered  peruke, 
his  satin  coat,  silk  stockings,  breeches,  shoe-buckles,  gold 
embroidered  waistcoat  and  lace  ruffles.  This  costume  re- 
minded him  of  the  past;  the  halls  of  Versailles  came  back 
to  him,  and  he  saw  before  him  the  shadowy  figures  of  the 
cavaliers  of  that  time,  all  clothed  like  the  dear  old  gentle- 
man who  was  sitting  before  the  bed  there. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  in  such  a  wondering  way,  Citi- 
zen Simon?"  asked  Naudin,  who  was  now  through  with 
his  examination. 

"I  really  wonder — I  really  do  wonder  immensely,"  said 
Simon,  "and  that  is  saying  much,  for,  in  these  times, 
when  there  are  so  many  changes,  a  man  can  hardly  wonder 
at  any  thing.  Still  I  do  wonder,  Citizen  Naudin,  that 
you  can  venture  to  go  arotind  in  this  costume.  That  is 
the  style  of  clothing  worn  by  traitorous  ci-devants  and 
aristocrats.  Anybody  else  who  dare  put  it  on  would  have 
only  one  more  walk  to  take,  that  to  the  guillotine,  and  yet 
you  venture  to  come  here!" 

"Venture?"  repeated  Naudin,  with  a  shrug.  "  I  ven- 
ture nothing,  citizen.  I  wear  my  clothes  in  conformity 
with  a  habit  of  years'  standing :  they  fitted  well  under  the 
monarchy,  they  fit  just  as  well  under  the  republic,  and  I 
am  not  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  put  by  my  soft  and 
comfortable  silk  clothes,  and  put  on  your  hateful,  uncom- 
fortable thick  ones,  and  strut  about  in  them.  I  am  alto- 
gether too  old  to  take  up  the  new  fashions,  and  altogether 
too  well  satisfied  with  my  own  suit  to  learn  how  to  wear 
your  cloth  coats  with  swallow-tails,  and  your  leather  hose 
and  top-boots.  Defend  me  from  crowding  my  old  limbs 
into  such  stuffs!" 

"Citizen  doctor,"  cried  Simon,  with  a  laugh,  "you  are 


418  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

a  jolly,  good  old  fellow,  and  I  like  you  well.  I  do  not 
blame  you  for  preferring  your  comfortable  silk  clothes  to 
the  new  style  that  our  revolutionary  heroes  have  brought 
into  mode,  that  nothing  might  remind  us  of  the  cursed, 
God-forsaken  monarchy.  I  wonder  merely  that  they  allow 
it,  and  do  not  make  you  a  head  shorter!" 

"  But  how  would  they  go  on  with  matters  in  the  Hotel 
Dieu?  Without  a  head  nothing  could  be  done  with  the 
sick  and  the  suffering,  for  without  a  head  there  is  no 
thinking.  Now,  as  I  am  the  head  of  the  hospital,  and  as 
they  have  no  head  to  take  my  place,  and  as,  in  spite  of  my 
old-fashioned  clothes,  my  sick  are  cured,  and  have  confi- 
dence in  me,  the  great  revolutionary  heroes  wink  at  me, 
and  let  me  do  as  I  please,  for  they  know  that  under  the 
silk  dress  of  an  aristocrat  beats  the  heart  of  a  true  democrat. 
But  that  is  not  the  question  before  us  now,  citizen.  We 
want  to  talk  about  the  health  of  your  wife  here.  She  is 
sick,  she  has  a  fever,  and  it  will  be  worse  yet  with  her,  un- 
less we  take  prompt  measures  and  provide  a  cooling  drink 
for  her." 

"Do  it,  citizen  doctor,"  said  Simon;  "make  my  Jeanne 
Marie  well  and  bright  again,  or  I  shall  go  crazy  here  in 
this  accursed  house.  Jeanne  Marie  is  sick  just  with  this, 
that  she  is  not  accustomed  to  be  idle,  and  to  sit  still  and 
fold  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  run  around  like  a  wild  beast 
in  its  cage.  But  here  in  the  Temple  it  is  no  better  than 
in  a  cage;  and  I  tell  you,  citizen,  it  is  enough  to  make 
one  crazy  here,  and  it  has  made  Jeanne  sick  to  have  no 
fresh  air,  no  exercise  and  work." 

"  But  why  has  she  no  exercise  and  no  work?  Why  does 
she  not  go  out  into  the  street  and  take  the  air?" 

"  Because  she  cannot,"  cried  Simon,  passionately.  "  Be- 
cause the  cursed  little  viper  there  embitters  our  whole  life 
and  makes  us  prisoners  to  this  miserable,  wretched  prisoner. 
Look  at  him  there,  the  infernal  little  wolf!  he  is  the  one 
to  blame  that  I  cannot  go  into  the  street,  cannot  visit  the 
clubs,  the  Convention,  or  any  meeting,  but  must  live  here 
like  a  Trappist,  or  like  an  imprisoned  criminal.  He  is  the 
one  to  blame  that  my  wife  can  no  longer  take  her  place  at 
the  guillotine,  and  knit  and  go  on  with  her  work  there." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Jeanne  Marie,  with  a  groan,  raising  her 


KING   LOUIS   THE  SEVENTEENTH.  419 

head  painfully  from  the  pillow,  "he  is  to  blame  for  it  all, 
the  shameless  rascal.  He  has  made  me  melancholy  and  sad ; 
he  has  worried,  and  vexed,  and  changed  me!  Oh!  oh!  he 
is  looking  at  me  again,  and  his  eyes  burn  into  my  heart!" 

"Miserable  viper,"  cried  Simon,  dashing  toward  the  boy 
with  clinched  fists,  "  how  dare  you  turn  your  hateful  eyes 
toward  her,  after  her  expressly  forbidding  it?  Wait,  I 
will  teach  you  to  disobey,  and  give  you  a  lesson  that  you 
will  not  forget." 

His  heavy  hand  fell  on  the  back  of  the  boy,  and  was 
raised  again  for  a  second  stroke,  when  it  was  held  as  in  an 
iron  vice. 

"You  good-for-nothing,  what  are  you  doing?"  cried  a 
thundering  voice,  and  two  blazing  eyes  flashed  on  him  from 
the  reddened  face  of  Doctor  Naudiu. 

Simon's  eyes  fell  before  the  angry  look  of  the  physician, 
then  he  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"Citizen  doctor,  I  say,  what  a  jolly  fellow  you  are,"  he 
said,  merrily.  "  You  did  that  just  as  if  you  were  in  a 
theatre,  and  you  called  out  to  me  just  as  they  call  out  to 
the  murderers  in  a  tragedy.  What  do  you  make  such  a 
halloo  about  when  I  chastise  the  wolf's  cub  a  bit,  as  he  has 
richly  deserved?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Naudin,  "  I  was  a  little  hasty.  But 
that  comes  from  the  fact,  citizen,  that  I  not  only  held  you 
to  be  a  good  republican,  but  a  good  man  as  well,  and 
therefore  it  pained  me  to  see  you  do  a  thing  which  be- 
comes neither  a  republican  nor  a  good  man." 

"Why,  what  have  I  done  that  is  not  proper?"  asked 
Simon,  in  amazement. 

"  Look  at  him,  the  poor,  beaten,  swollen,  stupefied  boy," 
said  Naudin,  solemnly,  pointing  to  Louis,  who  sat  on  his 
chair,  weeping  and  trembling  in  all  his  limbs — "look  at 
him,  citizen,  and  then  do  not  ask  me  again  what  you  have 
done  that  is  not  proper." 

"Well,  but  he  deserves  nothing  better,"  cried  Simon, 
with  a  sneer.  "  He  is  the  son  of  the  she- wolf,  Madame 
Veto." 

"He  is  a  human  being,"  said  Doctor  Naudin,  solemnly, 
"  and  he  is,  besides,  a  helpless  boy,  whom  the  one,  indi- 
visible, and  righteous  republic  deprived  of  his  father  and 


420  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

mother,  and  put  under  your  care  to  be  educated  as  if  he 
were  a  son  of  your  own.  I  ask  you,  citizen,  would  you 
have  struck  a  son  of  your  own  as  you  just  struck  this  boy?" 

A  loud,  convulsive  sob  came  from  the  bed  on  which 
Jeanne  Marie  lay,  and  entirely  confused  and  disturbed 
Simon. 

"No,"  he  said,  softly,  "perhaps  I  should  not  have  done 
it.  But,"  continued  he  eagerly,  and  with  a  grim  look,  "  a 
child  of  my  own  would  not  have  tried  and  exasperated  me 
as  this  youngster  does.  From  morning  till  evening  he 
vexes  me,  for  he  does  nothing  that  I  want  him  to.  If  I 
order  him  to  sing  with  me,  he  is  still  and  stupid,  and 
when  he  ought  to  be  still  he  makes  a  noise.  Would  you 
believe  me,  citizen,  this  son  of  the  she-wolf  leaves  me  no 
quiet  for  sleep.  Lately,  in  the  night,  he  kneeled  down  in 
the  bed  and  began  to  pray  with  a  loud  voice,  so  as  to  wake 
both  my  wife  and  myself." 

"From  that  night  on  I  have  been  sick  and  miserable," 
moaned  Jeanne  Marie;  "from  that  night  I  have  not  been 
able  to  sleep." 

"  You  hear,  citizen  doctor,  my  wife  was  so  terrified  with 
that,  that  it  made  her  sick,  and  now  you  shall  have  a 
proof  of  the  disobedience  of  the  little  viper.  Capet,  come 
here." 

The  boy  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  stole  along  with 
drooping  head  to  his  master. 

"Capet,  we  will  sing,"  said  Simon.  "You  shall  show 
the  doctor  that  you  are  a  good  republican,  and  that  you 
have  entirely  forgotten  that  you  are  the  son  of  the  Aus- 
trian, the  rascally  Madame  Veto.  Come,  we  will  sing  the 
song  about  Madame  Veto.  Quick,  strike  in,  or  I  will  beat 
you  into  pulp.  The  song  about  Madame  Veto,  do  you 
hear?  Sing!" 

A  short  pause  ensued.  Then  the  boy  raised  his  swollen 
face  and  fixed  his  great  blue  eyes  with  a  defiant,  flaming 
expression  upon  the  face  of  the  cobbler. 

"Citizen,"  he  said,  with  clear,  decided  tones,  "  I  shall 
not  sing  the  song  about  Madame  Veto,  for  I  have  not  for- 
gotten my  dear  mamma,  and  I  can  sing  nothing  bad  about 
her,  for  I  love  my  dear  mamma  so  much,  so  much,  and — " 

The  voice  of  the  boy  was  drowned  in  his  tears ;  he  let 


KING   LOUIS   THE  SEVENTEENTH.  421 

his  head  fall  upon  his  breast,  ready  to  receive  the  threat- 
ened chastisement.  But,  before  the  fist  of  Simon,  already 
raised,  could  fall  upon  the  poor  head  of  the  little  sufferer, 
a  thrilling  cry  of  pain  resounded  from  the  bed. 

"  Simon,  come  to  me,"  gasped  Jeanne  Marie.  "  Help  me 
draw  the  dagger  out  of  my  breast,  I  am  dying — oh,  I  am 
dying!" 

"  What  kind  of  a  dagger?"  cried  Simon,  rushing  to  the 
bed  and  taking  the  convulsed  form  of  his  wife  in  his  arms. 

"Hush!"  whispered  the  doctor,  who  also  had  gone  to 
the  bed  of  the  sick  woman — "  hush !  she  is  speaking  in  her 
fever,  and  the  dagger  of  which  she  talks  she  feels  in  her 
heart  and  conscience.  You  must  spare  her,  citizen,  if  you 
do  not  want  her  to  die.  Every  thing  must  be  quiet  around 
her,  and  you  must  be  very  careful  not  to  agitate  her  nerves, 
lest  she  have  an  acute  typhoid  fever.  I  will  send  her  some 
cooling  medicine  at  once,  and  to-morrow  morning  I  will 
come  early  to  see  how  it  fares  with  her.  But,  above  every 
thing  else,  Simon,  remember  to  have  quiet,  that  your  good 
wife  may  get  well  again." 

"  Who  would  have  told  me  two  weeks  ago  that  Jeanne 
Marie  had  nerves?"  growled  Simon.  "  The  first  knitter 
of  the  guillotine,  and  now  all  at  once  nerves  and  tears,  but 
I  must  be  careful  of  her.  For  it  would  be  too  bad  if  she 
should  die  and  leave  me  all  alone  with  this  tedious  young- 
ster. I  could  not  hold  out.  I  should  run  away.  Go, 
Capet,  get  into  your  room,  and  do  not  get  in  my  way  again 
to-day,  else  I  will  strangle  you  before  you  can  make  a 
sound.  Come,  scud,  clear,  and  do  not  let  me  see  you 
again,  if  your  life  is  worth  any  thing  to  you." 

The  child  stole  into  his  room  again,  sat  down  upon  the 
floor,  folded  his  little  hands  in  one  another,  fixed  his  great 
blue  eyes  on  the  ceiling  above,  and  held  his  breath  to  listen 
to  every  little  sound,  every  footfall  that  came  from  the 
room  above. 

All  at  once  he  heard  plainly  the  steps  of  some  one  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  and  a  pleased  smile  flitted  across  the 
face  of  the  boy. 

"That  is  certainly  my  dear  mamma,"  he  whispered  to 
himself.  "  Yes,  yes,  it  is  my  mamma  queen,  and  she  is 
taking  her  walk  in  the  sitting-room,  just  as  she  has  done 


422  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

since  she  has  not  been  allowed  to  go  out  upon  the  platform. 
Oh,  mamma,  my  dear  mamma,  I  love  you  so  much!" 

And  the  child  threw  a  kiss  up  to  the  ceiling,  not  know- 
ing that  she  to  whom  he  sent  his  greeting  had  long  been 
resting  in  the  silent  grave,  and  that  with  the  very  hand 
which  was  throwing  kisses  to  her,  he  had  himself  signed  the 
paper  which  heaped  upon  his  mother  the  most  frightful 
calumnies. 

Even  Simon  had  not  had  the  cruel  courage  to  tell  the  boy 
of  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  of  the  unconscious  wrong 
that  he,  poor  child,  had  done  to  her  memory,  and  in  his 
silent  chamber  his  longing  thoughts  of  her  were  his  only 
consolation. 

And  so  he  sat  there  that  day  looking  up  to  the  ceiling, 
greeting  his  dear  mamma  with  his  thoughts,  and  seeing 
her  in  spirit  greeting  him  again,  nodding  affectionately  to 
him  and  drawing  her  dear  little  Louis  Charles  to  her  arms. 

These  were  the  sweet,  transporting  fancies  which  made 
the  child  close  his  eyes  so  as  not  to  lose  them.  Immovably 
he  sat  there,  until  gradually  thoughts  and  dreams  flowed 
into  each  other,  and  not  only  his  will,  but  sleep  as  well, 
kept  his  eyes  closed.  But  the  dreams  remained,  and  were 
sweet  and  refreshing,  and  displayed  to  the  sleeping  child, 
so  harshly  treated  in  his  waking  hours,  only  scenes  of  love 
and  tenderness.  And  it  was  not  his  mother  alone  who  em- 
braced him  in  his  happy  slumbers;  no,  there  were  his  aunt 
and  his  sister  as  well,  and  at  last  even — oh  how  strange 
dreams  are! — at  last  he  even  saw  Simon's  wife  advancing 
toward  him  with  kindly  and  tender  mien.  She  stooped 
down  to  him,  took  him  up  in  her  arms,  kissed  his  eyes, 
and  begged  him  in  a  low,  trembling  voice  to  forgive  her 
for  being  so  cruel  and  bad.  And  while  she  was  speaking 
the  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes  and  flowed  over  his  face. 
She  kissed  them  away  with  her  hot  lips,  and  whispered, 
"  Forgive  me,  poor,  unhappy  angel,  and  do  not  bring  me 
to  judgment.  I  will  treat  you  well  after  this,  I  will  rescue 
you  from  this  hell,  or  I  will  die  for  you.  Oh,  how  the  bad 
man  has  beaten  your  dear  angel  face!  But  believe  me,  I 
have  felt  every  blow  in  my  own  heart,  and  when  he  treated 
you  so  abusively  I  felt  the  pain  of  hell.  Oh,  forgive  me, 
dear  boy,  forgive  me!"  and  again  the  tears  started  from  her 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  423 

eyes  and  flowed  hot  over  his  locks  and  forehead.  All  at 
once  Jeanne  Marie  quivered  convulsively,  laid  the  boy 
gently  down,  and  ran  hastily  away.  A  door  was  furiously 
opened  now,  and  Simon's  loud  and  angry  voice  was  heard. 

The  tones  awakened  the  little  Louis.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  around.  Yes,  it  had  really  all  been  only 
a  dream — he  had  heard  neither  his  mother  nor  Simon's 
wife,  and  yet  it  had  been  as  natural  as  if  it  had  all  really 
transpired.  He  had  felt  arms  tenderly  embracing  him  and 
tears  hot  upon  his  forehead. 

Entirely  unconscious  he  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow  and 
drew  it  back  affrighted,  for  his  hair  and  his  temples  were 
wet,  as  if  the  tears  of  which  he  dreamed  had  really  fallen 
there. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Jeanne  Marie?"  asked  Simon, 
angrily.  "  Why  have  you  got  out  of  bed  while  I  was  away, 
and  what  have  you  had  to  do  in  the  room  of  the  little 
viper?" 

"  If  you  leave  me  alone  with  him  I  have  to  watch  him, 
sick  as  I  am,"  moaned  she.  "  I  had  to  see  whether  he  was 
still  there,  whether  he  had  not  run  away,  and  gone  to  re- 
port to  the  Convention  that  we  have  left  him  alone  and 
have  no  care  for  him." 

"Oh,  bah!  he  will  not  complain  of  us,"  laughed  Simon; 
"  but  keep  quiet,  Jeanne  Marie,  I  promise  you  that  I  will 
not  leave  you  alone  again  with  the  wolf's  cub.  Besides, 
hsre  is  the  medicine  that  the  doctor  has  sent,  and  to-mor- 
row he  will  come  himself  again  to  see  how  you  get  on.  So 
keep  up  a  good  heart,  Jeanne  Marie,  and  all  will  come 
right  again." 

The  next  morning,  Dr.  Naudin  came  again  to  look  after 
the  sick  woman.  Simon  had  just  gone  up-stairs  to  an- 
nounce something  to  the  two  princesses  in  the  name  of  the 
Convention,  and  had  ordered  the  little  Capet  to  remain  in 
the  anteroom,  and,  if  the  doctor  should  come,  to  open  the 
door  to  him. 

Nobody  else  was  in  the  anteroom  when  Dr.  Naudin  en- 
tered, and  the  door  leading  into  the  next  room  was  closed, 
so  that  the  sick  person  who  was  there  could  see  and  hear 
nothing  of  what  took  place. 

"Sir,"  whispered  the  boy,  softly  and  quickly,  "you  were 


424  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

yesterday  so  good  to  me,  you  protected  me  fro**i  blo\vs, 
and  I  should  like  to  thank  you  for  it. " 

The  doctor  made  no  reply,  but  he  looked  at  the  boy  with 
such  an  expression  of  sympathy  that  he  felt  emboldened  to 
go  on. 

"My  dear  sir,"  continued  the  child,  softly,  and  with  a 
blush,  "  I  have  nothing  with  which  to  show  my  gratitude 
to  you  but  these  two  pears  that  were  given  me  for  my  sup- 
per last  night.  And  just  because  I  am  so  poor,  you  would 
do  me  a  great  pleasure  if  you  would  accept  my  two  pears."  * 

He  had  raised  his  eyes  to  the  doctor  with  a  gentle,  sup- 
plicatory expression,  and  taking  the  pears  from  the  pocket 
of  his  worn,  mended  jacket,  he  gave  them  to  the  physician. 

Then  happened  something  which,  had  Simon  entered 
the  room  just  then,  would  probably  have  filled  him  with 
exasperation.  It  happened  that  the  proud  and  celebrated 
Dr.  Naudin,  the  director  and  first  physician  of  the  Hotel 
Dieu,  sank  on  his  knee  before  this  poor  boy  in  the  patched 
jacket,  who  had  nothing  to  give  but  two  pears,  and  that 
he  was  so  overcome,  either  by  inward  pain  or  by  reverence, 
that  while  taking  the  pears  he  could  only  whisper,  with  a 
faint  voice :  "  I  thank  your  majesty.  I  have  never  received 
a  nobler  or  more  precious  gift  than  this  fruit,  which  my 
unfortunate  king  gives  me,  and  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will 
be  your  devoted  and  faithful  servant." 

It  happened  further  that  Dr.  Naudin  pressed  to  his  lips 
the  hand  that  reached  him  the  precious  gift,  and  that  upon 
this  hand  two  tears  fell  from  the  eyes  of  the  physician, 
long  accustomed  to  look  upon  human  misery  and  pain, 
and  which  had  not  for  years  been  suffused  with  moisture. 

Just  then,  approaching  steps  being  heard  in  the  corridor, 
the  doctor  rose  quickly,  concealed  the  pears  in  his  pocket, 
and  entered  the  chamber  of  the  sick  woman  at  the  same 
instant  when  Simon  returned  from  his  visit  above-stairs. 

The  boy  slipped,  with  the  doctor,  into  the  sick-room, 
and  as  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  him,  he  stole  softly 
into  his  room,  crouched  down  upon  his  straw  bed,  with 
fluttering  heart,  to  think  over  all  he  had  experienced  or 
dreamed  of  that  day. 

"  And  how  is  it  with  our  sick  one  to-day?"  asked  Doctor 

*  The  boy's  own  words. — See  Beauchesne,  vol.  ii.,  p.  189. 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  425 

Naudin,  sitting  down  near  the  bed,  and  giving  a  friendly 
nod  to  Simon  to  do  the  same. 

"  It  goes  badly  with  me,"  moaned  Mistress  Simon.  "  My 
heart  seems  to  be  on  fire,  and  I  have  no  rest  day  or  night. 
I  believe  that  it  is  all  over  with  me,  and  that  I  shall  die, 
and  that  is  the  best  thing  for  me,  for  then  I  shall  be  free 
again,  and  not  have  to  endure  the  torments  that  I  have 
had  to  undergo  in  this  dreadful  dungeon." 

"What  kind  of  pains  are  they?"  asked  the  doctor. 
"  Where  do  you  suffer?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  citizen  doctor,"  cried  Simon,  im- 
patiently. "  Her  pains  are  everywhere,  in  every  corner  of 
this  lonely  and  cursed  building;  and  if  it  goes  on  so  long, 
we  shall  have  to  pack  and  move.  The  authorities  have 
done  us  both  a  great  honor,  for  they  have  had  confidence 
enough  in  us  to  give  the  little  Capet  into  our  charge;  but 
it  is  our  misfortune  to  be  so  honored,  and  we  shall  both  die 
of  it.  For,  not  to  make  a  long  story  of  it,  we  both  cannot 
endure  the  air  of  the  prison,  the  stillness  and  solitude,  and 
it  is  a  dreadful  thing  for  us  to  see  nothing  else  the  whole 
day  than  the  stupid  face  of  this  youngster,  always  looking 
at  me  so  dreadfully  with  his  great  blue  eyes,  that  it  really 
affects  one.  We  are  neither  of  us  used  to  such  an  idle, 
useless  life,  and  it  will  be  the  death  of  us,  citizen  doctor. 
My  wife,  Jeanne  Marie,  whom  you  see  lying  there  so  pale 
and  still,  used  to  be  the  liveliest  and  most  nimble  woman 
about,  and  could  do  as  much  with  her  strong  arms  and 
brown  hands  as  four  other  women.  And  then  she  was  the 
bravest  and  most  outrageous  republican  that  ever  was, 
when  it  came  to  battling  for  the  people.  We  both  helped 
to  storm  the  Bastile,  both  went  to  Versailles  that  time,  and 
afterward  took  the  wolf's  brood  from  the  Tuileries  and 
brought  them  to  the  Convention.  Afterward  Jeanne 
Marie  was  always  the  first  on  the  platform  near  the  guillo- 
tine; and  when  Samson  and  his  assistants  mounted  the 
scaffold  in  the  morning,  and  waited  for  the  cars,  the  first 
thing  they  did  was  to  look  over  to  the  tribune  to  see  if 
Mistress  Simon  was  there  with  her  knitting,  for  it  used  to 
seem  to  them  that  the  work  of  hewing  off  heads  went  more 
briskly  on  if  Jeanne  Marie  was  there  and  kept  the  account 
in  her  stocking.  Samson  himself  told  me  this,  and  said  to 


426  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

me  that  Jeanne  Marie  was  the  bravest  of  all  the  women, 
and  that  she  never  trembled,  and  that  her  eyes  never 
turned  away,  however  many  heads  fell  into  the  basket. 
And  she  was  there  too  when  the  Austrian — " 

"Hush!"  cried  Jeanne  Marie,  rising  up  hastily  in  bed, 
and  motioning  to  her  husband  to  be  silent.  "  Do  not  speak 
of  that,  lest  the  youngster  hear  it,  and  turn  his  dreadful 
eyes  upon  us.  Do  not  speak  of  that  fearful  day,  for  it  was 
then  that  my  sickness  began,  and  I  believe  that  there  was 
poison  in  the  brandy  that  we  drank  that  evening.  Yes, 
yes,  there  was  poison  in  it,  and  from  that  comes  the  fire 
that  burns  in  my  heart,  and  I  shall  die  of  it !  Oh !  I  shall 
burn  to  death  with  it!" 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  face  and  sank  back  upon 
the  pillows,  sobbing.  Simon  shook  his  head  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.  "It  is  not  that,"  murmured  he;  "it  is  not 
from  that,  doctor !  The  thing  is,  that  Jeanne  Marie  has  no 
work  and  no  exercise,  and  that  she  is  going  to  wreck,  be- 
cause we  are  compelled  to  live  here  as  kings  and  aristocrats 
used  to  live,  without  labor  and  occupation,  and  without 
doing  any  more  than  to  nurse  our  fancies.  We  shall  all 
die  of  this,  I  tell  you!" 

"  But  if  you  know  this,  citizen,  why  do  you  not  give  up 
your  situation?  Why  do  you  not  petition  the  authorities 
to  dismiss  you  from  this,  service,  and  give  you  something 
else  to  do?" 

"I  have  done  that  twice  already,"  answered  Simon, 
bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  table  near  the  bed  so 
violently  that  the  bottles  of  medicine  standing  there  were 
jerked  high  into  the  air.  "  Twice  already  have  I  tried  to 
be  transferred  to  some  other  duty,  and  the  answer  has  been 
sent  back,  that  the  country  orders  me  to  stand  at  my  post, 
and  that  there  is  no  one  who  could  take  my  place." 

"That  is  very  honorable  and  flattering,"  remarked  the 
physician. 

"Yes,  but  very  burdensome  and  disagreeable,"  answered 
Simon.  "  We  are  prisoners  while  holding  these  honorable 
and  flattering  posts.  We  can  no  more  leave  the  Temple 
than  Capet  can,  for,  since  his  father  died,  and  the  crazy 
legitimists  began  to  call  him  King  Louis  XVTI.,  the  chief 
magistrate  and  the  Convention  have  been  very  anxious. 


KING  LOUIS  THE  SEVENTEENTH.  427 

They  are  afraid  of  secret  conspiracies,  and  consider  it  pos- 
sible that  the  little  prisoner  may  be  taken  away  from  here 
by  intrigue.  We  have  to  watch  him  day  and  night,  there- 
fore, and  are  never  allowed  to  leave  the  Temple,  lest  we 
should  meet  with  other  people,  and  lest  the  legitimists 
should  make  the  attempt  to  get  into  our  good  graces. 
Would  you  believe,  citizen  doctor,  that  they  did  not  even 
allow  me  to  go  to  the  grand  festival  which  the  city  of  Paris 
gave  in  honor  of  the  taking  of  Toulan !  While  all  the  peo- 
ple were  shouting,  and  having  a  good  time,  Jeanne  Marie 
and  I  had  to  stay  here  in  this  good-for-nothing  Temple, 
and  see  and  hear  nothing  of  the  fine  doings.  And  this 
drives  the  gall  into  my  blood,  and  it  will  make  us  both 
sick,  and  it  is  past  endurance!" 

"I  believe  that  you  are  right,  citizen,"  said  the  phy- 
sician, thoughtfully.  "  Yes,  the  whole  trouble  of  your 
wife  comes  from  the  fact  that  she  is  here  in  the  Temple, 
and  if  she  must  be  shut  up  here  always  she  will  continue  to 
suffer." 

"Yes,  to  suffer  always,  to  suffer  dreadfully,"  groaned 
Jeanne  Marie.  Then,  all  at  once,  she  raised  herself  up 
and  turned  with  a  commanding  bearing  to  her  husband. 

"Simon, "she  said,  "the  doctor  shall  know  all  that  I 
suffer.  He  shall  examine  my  breast,  and  the  place  where 
I  have  the  greatest  pain ;  but  in  your  presence  I  shall  say 
nothing." 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  go,"  growled  Simon.  "  But  I  think 
those  are  pretty  manners!" 

"  They  are  the  manners  of  a  respectable  and  honorable 
woman,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely — "  a  woman  who  does  not 
show  the  pains  and  ailments  of  her  body  to  any  one  except- 
ing her  physician.  Go,  go,  Citizen  Simon,  and  you  will 
esteem  your  good  wife  none  the  less  for  not  letting  you 
hear  what  she  has  to  say  to  her  old  physician." 

"No,  certainly  not,"  answered  Simon,  "and  that  you 
may  both  see  that  I  am  not  curious  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say  to  one  another,  I  will  go  with  the  youngster  up  to 
the  platform  and  remain  a  whole  hour  with  him." 

"You  will  beat  him  again,  and  I  shall  hear  him,"  said 
Jeanne  Marie,  weeping.  "  I  hear  every  thing  now  that 
goes  on  in  the  Temple,  and  whenever  you  strike  the  young- 
28 


428  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

star,  I  feel  every  blow  in  my  brain,  and  that  gives  me  pain 
enough  to  drive  me  to  distraction." 

"  I  promise  you,  Jeanne  Marie,  that  I  will  not  strike 
him,  and  will  not  trouble  myself  about  him  at  all.  He 
can  play  with  his  ball. — Halloa,  Capet!  Come!  We  are 
going  up  on  the  platform.  Take  your  ball  and  any  thing 
else  you  like,  for  you  shall  play  to-day  and  have  a  good 
time." 

The  child  stole  out  of  his  room  with  his  ball,  not  look- 
ing particularly  delighted,  and  the  prospect  of  "playing" 
did  not  give  wings  to  his  steps,  nor  call  a  smile  to  his 
swollen  face.  He  left  the  room  noiselessly,  and  Simon 
slammed  the  doors  violently  behind  him. 

"And  now  we  are  alone,"  said  Doctor  Naudin,  "and  you 
can  tell  me  about  your  sickness,  and  about  every  thing  that 
troubles  you." 

"Ah,  doctor,  I  do  not  dare  to,"  she  whispered.  "I  am 
overpowered  by  a  dreadful  fear,  and  I  think  you  will  be- 
tray me,  and  bring  my  husband  and  myself  to  the  scaffold." 

"I  am  no  betrayer,"  answered  the  doctor,  solemnly. 
"  The  physician  is  like  a  priest;  he  receives  the  secrets  and 
disclosures  of  his  patients,  and  lets  not  a  word  of  them  pass 
his  lips.  But,  in  order  that  you  may  take  courage,  I  will 
first  prove  to  you  that  I  put  confidence  in  you,  by  showing 
you  that  I  understand  you.  I  will  tell  you  what  the  dis- 
ease is  that  you  are  suffering  from,  and  also  its  locality. 
Jeanne  Marie  Simon,  you  are  enduring  that  with  which  no 
pains  of  the  body  can  be  compared.  Your  sickness  has  its 
seat  in  the  conscience,  and  its  name  is  remorse  and 
despair." 

Jeanne  Marie  uttered  a  heart-rending  cry,  and  sprang 
like  an  exasperated  tiger  from  her  bed.  "You  lie!"  she 
said,  seizing  the  doctor's  arm  with  both  hands;  "that  is  a 
foul,  damnable  calumny,  that  you  have  thought  out  merely 
to  bring  me  under  the  axe.  I  have  nothing  to  be  sorry  for, 
and  my  conscience  fills  me  with  no  reproaches." 

"  And  yet  it  is  gnawing  into  you  with  iron  teeth,  which 
have  been  heated  blood -red  in  the  fires  of  hell,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  compassionate  look  at  the  pale,  quivering 
face  of  the  woman.  "  Do  not  raise  any  quarrel,  but  quietly 
listen  to  me.  We  have  an  hour's  time  to  talk  together, 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  429 

and  we  want  to  use  it.  But  let  us  speak  softly,  softly,  to- 
gether ;  for  what  we  have  to  say  to  each  other  the  deaf 
walls  themselves  ought  not  to  hear." 

Simon  had  not  returned  from  the  platform  with  the 
boy,  when  Doctor  Naudin  ended  his  long  and  earnest  con- 
versation, and  prepared  to  leave  his  patient,  who  was  now 
quietly  lying  in  her  bed. 

"You  know  every  thing  now  that  you  have  to  do,"  he 
said,  extending  his  hand  to  her.  "  You  can  reckon  on  me 
as  I  reckon  on  you,  and  we  will  both  go  bravely  and  cheer- 
fully on.  It  is  a  noble  work  that  we  have  undertaken,  and 
if  it  succeeds  your  heart  will  be  light  again,  and  God  will 
forgive  you  your  sins,  for  two  martyrs  will  stand  and  plead 
in  your  behalf  at  the  throne  of  God !  Now,  do  every  thing 
exactly  as  I  have  told  you,  and  speak  with  your  husband 
to-night,  but  not  sooner,  that  you  may  be  safe,  and  for 
fear  that  in  his  first  panic  his  face  would  betray  him." 

"I  shall  do  every  thing  just  as  you  wish,"  said  Jeanne 
Marie,  who  had  suddenly  become  humble  and  bashful,  ap- 
parently entirely  forgetful  of  the  republican  "  thou."  "  It 
seems  to  me,  now  that  I  have  disburdened  my  heart  to  you, 
that  I  have  become  well  and  strong  again,  and  certainly  I 
shall  owe  it  to  you  if  I  do  live  and  get  my  health  once 
more.  But  shall  you  come  again  to-morrow,  doctor?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  will  send  a  man  to-morrow  who 
understands  better  than  I  do  how  to  continue  this  matter, 
and  to  whom  you  can  give  unconditional  confidence.  He 
will  announce  himself  to  you  as  my  assistant,  and  you  can 
talk  over  at  length  every  thing  that  we  have  been  speaking 
of.  Hush!  I  hear  Simon  coming !  Farewell!" 

He  nodded  to  Jeanne  Marie,  and  hastily  left  the  room. 
Outside,  in  the  corridor,  he  met  Simon  and  his  silent 
young  ward. 

"Well,  citizen  doctor,"  asked  Simon,  "how  is  it  with 
our  sick  one?  She  has  intrusted  all  her  secrets  to  you, 
and  they  must  have  made  a  long  story,  for  you  have  been 
a  whole  hour  together.  It  is  fortunate  that  you  are  an  old 
man,  or  else  I  should  have  been  jealous  of  your  long  tete-a- 
tete  with  my  wife." 

"  Then  you  would  be  a  great  fool,  and  I  have  always 
held  you  to  be  a  prudent  and  good  man.  But,  as  concerns 


430  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

your  wife,  I  must  tell  you  something  very  serious,  and  I 
beg  you,  Citizen  Simon,  to  mark  my  words  well.  I  tell 
you  this:  unless  your  wife  Jeanne  Marie  is  out  of  this 
Temple  in  less  than  a  week,  and  enjoys  her  freedom,  she 
will  either  lose  her  senses  or  take  her  life.  I  will  say  to 
you  this,  besides :  if  Citizen  Simon  does  not,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, leave  this  cursed  place  and  give  up  his  hateful  busi- 
ness, it  will  be  the  same  with  him  as  with  his  wife.  He 
will  not  become  insane,  but  he  will  lapse  into  melancholy, 
and  if  he  does  not  take  his  own  life  consumption  will  take 
it  for  him,  the  result  of  his  idle,  listless  life,  the  many 
vexations  here,  and  the  wretched  atmosphere  of  the 
Temple." 

"  Consumption!"  cried  Simon,  horrified.  "  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  am  exposed  to  that?" 

"You  have  it  already,"  said  the  doctor,  solemnly. 
"  Those  red  spots  on  your  cheeks,  and  the  pain  which  you 
have  so  often  in  the  breast,  announce  its  approach.  I  tell 
you  that  if  you  do  not  take  measures  to  leave  the  Temple 
in  a  week,  in  three  months  you  will  be  a  dead  man,  with- 
out giving  the  guillotine  a  chance  at  you.  Good-by! 
Consider  well  what  I  say,  citizen,  and  then  do  as  you  like!" 

"He  is  right,"  muttered  Simon,  as  he  looked  after  the 
doctor  with  a  horrified  look,  as  Naudin  descended  the 
staircase;  "yes,  I  see,  he  is  right.  If  I  have  to  stay  here 
any  longer,  I  shall  die.  The  vexations  and  the  loneliness, 
and — something  still  more  dreadful,  frightful,  that  I  can 
tell  no  one  of — have  made  me  sick,  and  the  stitch  in  my 
side  will  grow  worse  and  worse  every  day,  and — I  must  and 
will  get  away  from  here,"  he  said  aloud,  and  with  a  de- 
cided air.  "  I  will  not  die  yet,  neither  shall  Jeanne  Marie. 
To-morrow  I  will  hand  in  my  resignation,  and  then  be 
away!" 

While  Simon  was  walking  slowly  and  thoughtfully  to- 
ward his  wife,  Doctor  Naudin  left  the  dark  building,  went 
with  a  light  heart  out  into  the  street,  and  returned  with  a 
quick  step  to  the  Hotel  Dieu.  The  porter  who  opened  the 
door  for  him,  reported  to  him  that  during  his  absence  the 
same  old  gentleman  who  had  come  the  day  before  to  con- 
sult him,  had  returned  and  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
anteroom. 


KING   LOUIS  THE   SEVENTEENTH.  431 

Doctor  Naudin  nodded,  and  then  walked  quickly  toward 
his  own  apartments.  Before  the  door  he  found  his  servant. 

"Old  Doctor  Saunier  is  here  again,"  he  said,  taking  off 
his  master's  cloak.  "  He  insisted  on  waiting  for  you.  He 
said  that  he  must  consult  you  about  a  patient,  and  would 
not  cease  begging  till  you  should  consent  to  accompany  him 
to  the  sick  person's  house.  For,  if  a  case  seemed  desper- 
ate, the  great  Naudin  might  still  save  it." 

"  You  are  an  ass  for  letting  him  talk  such  nonsense,  and 
for  believing  it  yourself,  Citizen  Joly,"  cried  Naudin  with 
a  laugh,  and  then  entering  the  anteroom. 

An  old  gentleman,  clad  in  the  same  old-fashioned  cos- 
tume with  Doctor  Naudin,  came  forward.  Citizen  Joly,  as 
he  closed  the  door  somewhat  slowly,  heard  him  say: 
"  Thank  God  that  you  have  come  at  last,  citizen !  I  have 
waited  for  you  impatiently,  and  now  I  conjure  you  to  ac- 
company me  as  quickly  as  possible  to  my  patient." 

Naudin,  opening  the  door  of  his  study,  said  in  reply, 
"  Come  in,  Citizen  Saunier,  and  tell  me  first  how  it  is  with 
your  sick  one." 

Nothing  more  could  Joly,  Naudin's  servant,  understand, 
for  the  two  doctors  had  gone  into  the  study,  and  the  door 
was  closed  behind  them.  After  a  short  time,  however,  it 
was  opened.  Naudin  ordered  the  valet  to  order  a  fiacre  at 
once,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Director  Naudin  rode  away 
at  the  side  of  Doctor  Saunier. 

At  a  house  in  the  Rue  Montmartre  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  the  two  physicians  entered.  The  porter,  opening  the 
little,  dusty  window  of  his  lodge,  nodded  confidentially  to 
Saunier. 

"  That  is  probably  the  celebrated  Doctor  Naudin  of  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  whom  you  have  with  you?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  it  is  he,"  answered  Saunier,  "  and  if  anybody  can 
help  our  patient,  it  is  he.  Citizen  Crage  is  probably  at 
home  ?" 

"  Certainly  he  is  at  home,  for  you  know  he  never  leaves 
his  sick  boy.  You  will  find  him  above.  You  know  the 
way,  citizen  doctor!" 

The  two  physicians  passed  on,  ascended  the  staircase, 
and  entered  the  suit  of  rooms  whose  door  was  only  partially 
closed — left  ajar,  as  it  seemed,  for  them.  Nobody  came  to 


432  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

meet  them,  but  they  carefully  closed  the  door  behind  them, 
drew  the  bolt,  and  then  walked  silently  and  quickly  across 
the  anteroom  to  the  opposite  door. 

Doctor  Saunier  knocked  softly  three  times  with  a  slight 
interval  between,  and  cried  three  times  with  a  loud  voice, 
"  The  two  physicians  are  come  to  see  the  patient." 

A  bolt  was  withdrawn  on  the  inside,  the  door  opened, 
and  a  tall  man's  figure  appeared  and  motioned  to  the  gen- 
tlemen to  come  in. 

"Are  we  alone?"  whispered  Doctor  Saunier,  as  they  en- 
tered the  inner  room. 

"Yes,  entirely  alone,"  answered  the  other.  "There  in 
the  chamber  lies  my  poor  sick  boy,  and  you  know  well  that 
he  can  betray  no  one,  and  that  he  knows  nothing  of  what 
is  going  on  around  him." 

"Yes,  unfortunately,  I  know  that,"  answered  Doctor 
Saunier  sadly.  "  I  promised  you  that  I  would  bring  you 
the  most  celebrated  and  skilful  physician  in  Paris,  and  you 
see  I  keep  my  word,  for  I  have  brought  you  Doctor  Nau- 
din,  the  director  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  and — the  friend  and 
devoted  servant  of  the  royal  family,  to  whom  we  have  both 
sworn  allegiance  until  death.  Doctor  Naudin,  I  have  not 
given  you  the  name  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  was  tak- 
ing you.  It  is  a  secret  which  only  the  possessor  is  able  to 
divulge  to  you." 

"I  divulge  it,"  said  the  other,  smiling,  "Doctor  Kau- 
din,  I  am  the  Marquis  Jarjayes." 

"  Jarjayes,  who  made  the  plan  for  the  escape  of  the 
royal  family  in  the  Temple?"  asked  Naudin  eagerly. 
"  Marquis  Jarjayes,  who  lost  his  property  in  the  service  of 
the  queen,  risked  his  life  in  her  deliverance,  and  perhaps 
escaped  the  guillotine  merely  by  emigrating  and  putting 
himself  beyond  the  reach  of  Eobespierre.  Are  you  that 
loyal,  courageous  Marquis  de  Jarjayes?" 

"  I  am  Jarjayes,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  praises  you 
have  given  me,  but  I  cannot  accept  them  in  the  presence 
of  him  who  merits  them  all  much  more  than  I  do,  and  who 
is  more  worthy  of  praise  than  any  one  else.  No,  I  can  re- 
ceive no  commendation  in  the  presence  of  Toulan,  the 
most  loyal,  the  bravest,  the  most  prudent  of  us  all;  for 
Toulan  is  the  soul  of  every  thing,  and  our  martyr  queen 


KING   LOUIS   THE   SEVENTEENTH.  433 

confessed  it  in  giving  him  the  highest  of  all  titles  of  honor, 
in  calling  him  Fidele,  a  title  which  will  remain  for  cen- 
turies. " 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  said  Dr.  Naudin,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  Dr.  Saunier.  "  He  is  the  noblest,  most 
loyal,  and  bravest  of  us  all.  On  that  account,  when  he 
came  to  me  a  few  days  ago  and  showed  me  the  golden  salt's- 
bottle  of  the  queen  in  confirmation  of  his  statement  that 
he  was  Toulan,  I  was  ready  to  do  every  thing  that  he 
might  desire  of  me  and  to  enter  into  all  his  plans,  for 
Toulan 's  magnanimity  and  fidelity  are  contagious,  and  ex- 
cite every  one  to  emulate  him." 

"I  beg  you,  gentlemen,"  said  Toulan  softly,  "do  not 
praise  me  nor  think  that  to  be  heroism  which  is  merely 
natural.  I  have  devoted  to  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  my 
life,  my  thought,  my  heart.  I  swore  upon  her  hand  that 
so  long  as  I  lived  I  would  be  true  to  her  and  her  family, 
and  to  keep  my  vow  is  simple  enough.  Queen  Marie  An- 
toinette is  no  more.  I  was  not  able  to  save  her,  but  per- 
haps she  looks  down  from  the  heavenly  heights  upon  us, 
and  is  satisfied  with  us,  if  she  sees  that  we  are  now  trying  to 
do  for  her  son  what,  unfortunately,  we  were  not  able  to 
accomplish  for  her.  This  is  my  hope,  and  this  spurs  me 
on  to  attempt  every  thing,  in  order  to  bring  about  the  last 
wish  of  my  queen — the  freeing  of  her  son.  God  in  His 
grace  has  willed  that  I  should  not  be  alone  in  this  effort, 
and  that  I  should  have  the  cooperation  of  noble  men.  He 
visibly  blesses  our  plans,  for  is  it  not  a  manifest  sign  of 
His  blessing  that,  exactly  in  those  days  when  we  are  trying 
to  find  a  means  of  approaching  the  unhappy,  imprisoned 
son  of  the  queen,  accident  affords  us  this  means?  Exactly 
at  the  hour  when  I  went  to  Dr.  Naudin  and  disclosed  myself 
to  him,  the  porter  of  the  Temple  came  and  desired  in  behalf 
of  Simon's  wife  that  Dr.  Naudin  should  go  to  the  Temple." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  was  a  wonderful  occurrence,"  said 
Naudin,  thoughtfully.  "  I  am  not  over-blessed  with  sen- 
sibility, but  when  I  saw  the  son  of  the  queen  in  his  sorrow 
and  humiliation,  I  sank  on  my  knee  before  the  poor  little 
king,  and  in  my  heart  I  swore  that  Toulan  should  find  in 
me  a  faithful  coadjutor  in  his  plan,  and  that  I  would  do 
every  thing  to  set  him  free." 


434  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"And  so  havo  I  too  sworn,"  cried  Jarjayes,  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  The  queen  is  dead,  but  our  fidelity  to  her  lives 
and  shall  renew  itself  to  her  son,  King  Louis  XVII.  I 
know  well  that  the  police  are  watching  me,  that  they  know 
who  is  secreting  himself  here  under  the  name  of  Citizen 
Orage,  that  they  follow  every  one  of  my  steps  and  perhaps 
suffer  me  to  be  free  only  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  with 
whom  I  have  relations,  in  order  to  arrest  and  destroy  me 
at  one  fell  swoop,  with  all  my  friends  at  the  same  time. 
But  we  must  use  the  time.  I  have  come  here  with  the 
firm  determination  of  delivering  the  unhappy  young  king 
from  the  hands  of  his  tormentors,  and  I  will  now  confess 
every  thing  to  you,  my  friends.  I  have  gained  for  our  un- 
dertaking the  assistance  and  protection  of  a  rich  and  noble 
patron,  a  true  servant  of  the  deceased  king.  The  Prince 
de  Conde,  with  whom  I  have  lived  in  Vendee  for  the  past 
few  months,  has  furnished  me  with  ample  means,  and  is 
prepared  to  support  us  to  any  extent  in  our  undertaking. 
If  we  succeed  in  saving  the  young  king,  the  latter  will 
find  in  Vendee  a  safe  asylum  with  the  prince,  and  will  live 
there  securely,  surrounded  by  his  faithful  subjects.  The 
immense  difficulty,  or,  as  I  should  have  said  a  few  days  ago, 
the  impossibility,  is  the  release  of  the  young  prince  from 
the  Temple.  But  how  that  I  have  succeeded  in  discovering 
Toulan  and  uniting  myself  with  him,  I  no  longer  say  it  is 
impossible,  but  only  it  is  difficult." 

"  And,"  cried  Toulan,  "  since  I  am  sure  of  the  assistance 
of  the  noble  Doctor  Naudin,  I  say,  we  will  free  him,  the 
son  of  our  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  the  young  King  Louis 
XVII.  The  plan  is  entirely  ready  in  my  head,  and  in  or- 
der to  make  its  execution  possible,  I  went  a  few  days  ago 
to  see  Doctor  Naudin  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  in  order  to  beg 
him  to  visit  the  sick  boy  that  the  marquis  has  here,  and 
just  at  that  moment  Simon's  messenger  came  to  the  Tem- 
ple. Doctor  Naudin  is  now  here,  and  first  of  all  it  is  nec- 
essary that  he  give  us  his  last,  decisive  judgment  on  tbe 
patient.  So  take  us  to  him,  marquis,  for  upon  Naudin 's 
decision  depends  the  fate  of  the  young  King  of  France." 

The  marquis  nodded  silently,  and  conducted  the  gentle- 
men into  the  next  room.  There,  carefully  propped  up  by 
mattresses  and  pillows,  lay  a  child  of  perhaps  ten  years — a 


KING   LOUIS   THE  SEVENTEENTH.  435 

poor,  unfortunate  boy,  with  pale,  sunken  cheeks,  fixed  blue 
eyes,  short  fair  hair,  and  a  stupid,  idiotic  expression  on 
his  features.  As  the  three  gentlemen  came  to  him  he  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  them  in  a  cold,  indifferent  way,  and  not  a 
quiver  in  his  face  disclosed  any  interest  in  them.  Motion- 
less and  pale  as  death  the  boy  lay  upon  his  bed,  and  only 
the  breath  that  came  hot  and  in  gasps  from  his  breast  dis- 
closed that  there  was  still  life  in  this  poor  shattered  frame. 

Doctor  Naudin  stooped  down  to  the  boy  and  looked  at 
him  a  long  time  with  the  utmost  attention. 

"This  boy  is  perfectly  deaf!"  he  then  said,  raising  him- 
self up  and  looking  at  the  marquis  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  doctor,  your  sharp  eye  has  correctly  discerned  it; 
he  is  perfectly  deaf." 

"Is  it  your  son?" 

"  No,  doctor,  he  is  the  son  of  my  sister,  the  Baroness  of 
Tardif,  who  was  guillotined  together  with  her  husband.  I 
undertook  the  care  of  this  unfortunate  child,  and  at  my 
removal  from  Paris  gave  him  to  some  faithful  servants  of 
my  family  to  be  cared  for.  On  my  return  I  learned  that 
the  good  people  had  both  been  guillotined,  and  find  the 
poor  boy,  Avho  before  had  been  at  least  sound  in  body,  ut- 
terly neglected,  and  living  on  the  sympathy  of  the  people 
who  had  taken  him  on  the  death  of  his  foster-parents.  I 
brought  the  child  at  once  to  this  house,  which  I  had  hired 
for  myself  under  the  name  of  Citizen  Orage,  and  Toulan 
undertook  to  procure  the  help  of  a  physician.  It  has  now 
come  in  the  person  of  the  celebrated  Doctor  Naudin,  and 
I  beg  you  to  have  pity  on  the  poor  unfortunate  child,  and 
to  receive  him  into  the  Hotel  Dieu." 

"  Let  me  first  examine  the  child,  in  order  to  tell  you 
what  is  the  nature  of  his  disorder." 

And  Doctor  Naudin  stooped  down  again  to  the  boy,  ex- 
amined his  eyes,  his  chest,  his  whole  form,  listened  to  his 
breathing,  the  action  of  his  heart,  and  felt  his  pulse.  The 
patient  was  entirely  apathetic  during  all  this,  now  and 
then  merely  whining  and  groaning,  when  a  movement  of 
the  doctor's  hand  caused  him  pain. 

After  the  careful  investigation  had  been  ended,  the 
doctor  called  the  two  gentlemen  who  had  withdrawn  to  the 
window  to  the  bed  again. 


436  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"Marquis,"  said  he,  "  this  unfortunate  child  will  never 
recover,  and  the  least  painful  thing  that  could  happen  to 
him  would  be  a  speedy  release  from  his  miserable  lot.  Yet 
I  do  not  believe  that  this  will  occur,  but  consider  it  pos- 
sible that  the  boy  will  protract  his  unfortunate  life  a  full 
year  after  his  mind  has  entirely  passed  away,  and  nothing 
is  left  of  him  but  his  body.  The  boy,  if  you  can  regard 
such  a  poor  creature  as  a  human  being,  is  suffering  from 
an  incurable  form  of  scrofula,  which  will  by  and  by  con- 
sume his  limbs,  and  convert  him  into  an  idiot ;  he  is  now 
deaf ;  he  will  be  a  mere  stupid  beast.  If  it  were  permitted 
to  substitute  the  hand  of  science  in  place  of  the  hand  of 
God,  I  should  say  we  ought  to  kill  this  poor  creature  that 
is  no  man  and  no  beast,  and  has  nothing  more  to  expect  of 
life  than  pain  and  torture,  having  no  more  consciousness 
of  any  thing  than  the  dog  has  when  he  does  not  get  a  bone 
with  which  to  quiet  his  hunger." 

"Poor,  unhappy  creature!"  sighed  the  marquis.  "Now, 
I  thank  God  that  He  released  my  sister  from  the  pain  of 
seeing  her  dear  child  in  this  condition. 

"Doctor  Naudin,"  said  Toulan,  solemnly,  "is  it  your 
fixed  conviction  that  this  sick  person  will  never  re- 
cover?" 

"  My  firm  and  undoubted  conviction,  which  every  physi- 
cian who  should  see  him  would  share  with  me." 

"  Are  you  of  the  opinion  that  this  child  has  nothing  in 
life  to  lose,  and  that  death  would  be  a  gain  to  it?" 

"  Yes ;  that  is  my  belief.  Death  would  be  a  release  for 
the  poor  creature,  for  life  is  only  a  burden  to  it  as  well  as 
to  others." 

"Then,"  cried  Toulan,  solemnly,  "I  will  give  this  poor 
sick  child  a  higher  and  a  fairer  mission.  I  will  make  its 
life  an  advantage  to  others,  and  its  death  a  hallowed  sacri- 
fice. Marquis  of  Jarjayes,  in  the  name  of  King  Louis 
XVI.,  in  the  name  of  the  exalted  martyr  to  whom  we 
have  all  sworn  fidelity  unto  death,  Queen  Marie  Antoinette, 
I  demand  and  desire  of  you  that  you  would  intrust  to  me 
this  unhappy  creature,  and  give  his  life  into  my  hands. 
In  the  name  of  Marie  Antoinette,  I  demand  of  the  Marquis 
of  Jarjayes  that  he  deliver  to  me  the  son  of  his  sister,  that 
he  do  what  every  one  of  us  is  joyfully  prepared  to  do  if  our 


THE  CONSULTATION.  437 

holy  cause  demands  it,  that  this  boy  may  give  his  life  for 
his  king,  the  imprisoned  Louis  XVII." 

While  Toulan  was  speaking  with  his  earnest,  solemn 
voice,  Jarjayes  knelt  before  the  bed  of  the  poor  sobbing 
child,  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  prayed  softly. 

Then,  after  a  long  pause,  he  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  feverish  brow  of  the  boy.  "You  have  addressed  me," 
he  said,  "  in  the  name  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  You 
demand  of  me  as  the  guardian  of  this  poor  creature  that  I 
give  him  to  you,  that  he  may  give  his  life  for  his  king. 
The  sons  and  daughters  of  my  house  have  always  been 
ready  and  glad  to  devote  their  possessions,  their  happiness, 
their  lives,  to  the  service  of  their  kings,  and  I  speak  simply 
in  the  spirit  of  my  sister — who  ascended  the  scaffold  to  seal 
her  fidelity  to  the  royal  family  with  her  death — I  speak  in 
the  spirit  of  all  my  ancestors  when  I  say,  here  is  the  last  off- 
spring of  the  Baroness  of  Tardif,  here  is  the  son  of  my 
sister;  take  him  and  let  him  live  or  die  for  his  king,  Louis 
XVII.,  the  prisoner  at  the  Temple." 


CHAPTEE     XXVI. 

THE   CONSULTATION. 

DURING  the  night  which  followed  the  second  visit  5f 
Doctor  Naudin,  Jeanne  Marie  Simon  had  a  long  and  ear- 
nest conversation  with  her  husband.  The  first  words  which 
the  wife  uttered,  spoken  in  a  whisper  though  they  were, 
excited  the  cobbler  so  much  that  he  threatened  her  with 
his  clinched  fist.  She  looked  him  calmly  in  the  face,  how- 
ever, and  said  to  him  softly,  "  And  so  you  mean  to  stay  per- 
petually in  this  hateful  prison?  You  want  to  remain  shut 
up  here  like  a  criminal,  and  get  no  more  satisfaction  out 
of  life  than  what  comes  from  tormenting  this  poor,  half- 
witted boy  to  death?" 

Simon  let  his  hand  fall,  and  said,  "  If  there  were  a  means 
of  escaping  from  this  infernal  prison,  it  would  certainly 
be  most  welcome  to  me,  for  I  am  heartily  tired  of  being  a 
prisoner  here,  after  having  prayed  for  freedom  so  long, 
and  worked  for  it  so  much.  So,  if  there  is  a  means — " 


438  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  There  is  such  a  means,"  interrupted  his  wife.  "  Listen 
to  me!" 

And  Simon  did  listen,  and  the  moving  and  eloquent 
words  of  his  wife  at  length  found  a  willing  ear.  Simon's 
face  gradually  lightened  up,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  now  able  to  release  his  wife  from  an  oppressive,  burden- 
some load. 

"If  it  succeeds,"  he  muttered — "if  it  succeeds,  I  shall 
be  free  from  the  mountainous  weight  which  presses  upon 
me  day  and  night  and  shall  become  a  healthy  man  again." 

"And  if  it  does  not  succeed,"  whispered  Jeanne  Marie, 
"  the  worst  that  can  happen  to  us  is  what  has  happened  to 
thousands  before  us.  We  shall  merely  feed  the  machine, 
and  our  heads  will  tumble  into  the  basket,  with  this  dif- 
ference, that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  make  any  mark  in  my 
stocking.  I  would  rather  die  all  at  once  on  the  guillotine 
and  have  it  over,  than  be  dying  here  day  after  day,  and 
hour  after  hour,  having  nothing  to  expect  from  life  but 
pain  and  ennui." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Simon,  decidedly.  "Rather  die, 
than  go  on  leading  such  a  dog's  life.  Let  your  doctor 
come  to  me  to-morrow  morning.  I  will  talk  with  him!" 

Early  the  next  day  the  doctor  came  in  his  long,  black 
cloak,  and  with  his  peruke,  to  visit  the  sick  Mistress 
Simon.  The  guards  at  the  gate  leading  to  the  outer  court 
ojuietly  let  him  pass  in,  and  did  not  notice  that  another 
face  appeared  in  the  peruke  from  that  which  had  been 
seen  the  day  before.  The  two  official  guards  above,  who 
had  just  completed  their  duties  in  the  upper  story,  and 
met  the  doctor  on  the  tower  stairs,  did  not  take  any  offence 
at  his  figure.  The  director  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  was  not 
personally  known  to  them,  and  they  were  familiar  with 
but  little  about  him,  excepting  that  he  took  the  liberty  of 
going  about  in  his  old-fashioned  cloak,  without  giving  of- 
fence to  the  authorities,  and  that  he  had  permission  from 
those  authorities  to  come  to  the  Temple  for  the  purpose 
of  visiting  the  wife  of  Simon. 

"  You  will  find  two  patients  to-day  up  there,"  said  one 
of  the  officials  as  he  passed  by.  "  We  empower  you,  doctor, 
to  take  the  second  one,  little  Capet,  under  your  charge. 
The  boy  appears  to  be  really  sick,  or  else  he  is  obstinate 


THE  CONSULTATION.  439 

and  mulish.  He  answers  no  questions,  and  he  has  taken 
no  nourishment,  Simon  tells  us,  since  yesterday  noon. 
Examine  into  the  case,  doctor,  and  then  tell  us  what  your 
opinion  is.  We  will  wait  for  you  down  in  the  council- 
room.  So  make  as  much  haste  as  possible." 

They  passed  on,  and  the  doctor  did  really  make  haste  to 
ascend  the  staircase.  At  the  open  door  which  led  to  the 
apartment  of  the  little  Capet  and  his  "guardian,"  he  found 
Simon. 

"Did  you  hear,  citizen?"  asked  the  doctor.  "  The  offi- 
cials are  waiting  for  me  below." 

"Yes,  I  heard,  doctor,"  whispered  Simon.  "We  have 
not  much  time.  Come!" 

He  motioned  to  the  physician  to  pass  along  the  corridor 
and  to  enter  the  room,  while  he  bolted  and  locked  the  outer 
door.  As  the  doctor  entered,  Mistress  Simon  lay  upon  her 
bed  and  looked  at  the  new-comer  with  curious,  glowing 
eyes. 

"  Who  are  you?"  she  asked,  rising  quickly  from  her  bed. 
"  You  are  not  Doctor  Naudin  whom  I  expected,  and  I  do 
not  know  you !" 

Meantime  the  doctor  walked  in  silence  to  her  bed,  and 
stooped  over  Jeanne  Marie,  Avho  sank  back  upon  the  pillow. 

"  I  am  the  one  who  is  to  help  you  escape  from  the  Tem- 
ple," he  whispered.  "  Doctor  Naudin  has  sent  me,  to  work 
in  union  with  him  and  you  in  effecting  your  release  and 
that  of  the  unfortunate  Capet." 

"Husband,"  cried  Jeanne  Marie  to  the  cobbler,  who  was 
just  coming  in,  "  this  is  the  man  who  is  going  to  deliver  us 
from  this  hell!" 

"That  is  to  say,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  firm,  penetrat- 
ing voice,  "  I  will  free  you  if  you  will  help  me  free  the 
dauphin." 

"  Speak  softly,  for  God's  sake,  speak  softly,"  said  Simon 
anxiously.  "If  any  one  should  hear  you,  we  are  all  lost! 
We  will  do  every  thing  that  you  demand  of  us,  provided 
that  we  can  in  that  way  escape  from  this  miserable,  good- 
for-nothing  place.  The  air  here  is  like  poison,  and  to  have 
to  stay  here  is  like  being  buried  alive." 

"And  then  the  dreams,  the  frightful  dreams,"  muttered 
Jeanne  Marie,  with  a  shudder.  "  I  cannot  sleep  any  more 


440  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

in  this  dreadful  prison,  for  that  pale,  fearful  woman,  with 
great,  fixed  eyes,  goes  walking  about  through  the  Temple 
every  night,  and  listens  at  the  doors  to  see  whether  her 
children  are  alive  yet,  and  whether  we  are  not  killing  them. 
Lately,  she  has  not  only  listened  at  the  doors,  but  she  has 
come  into  my  room,  and  passed  my  bed,  and  gone  into  the 
chamber  of  little  Capet.  Simon  was  asleep,  and  did  not 
see  her.  I  sprang  up,  however,  and  stole  softly  to  the  door ; 
for  I  thought  somebody  had  crept  in  here  in  disguise, 
possibly  Citizen  Toulan,  who  had  already  twice  made  the 
attempt  to  release  the  Austrian  and  her  children,  and  whom 
I  then  denounced  at  headquarters.  There  I  saw — although 
it  was  entirely  dark  in  the  hall — there  I  saw  little  Capet 
lying  asleep  on  his  mattress,  his  hands  folded  over  his 
breast,  and  with  an  expression  of  countenance  more  happy, 
altogether  more  happy,  than  it  ever  is  when  he  is  awake. 
Near  the  mattress  kneeled  the  figure  in  white,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  radiance  streamed  out  from  it  that  filled  the 
whole  room.  Its  face  was  pale  and  white,  just  like  a  lily, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  fragrance  of  a  lily  was  in  the  apart- 
ment. Her  two  arms  were  raised,  as  if  she  would  utter  a 
benediction  over  her  sleeping  boy ;  around  her  half-opened 
lips  played  a  sweet  smile,  and  her  great  eyes,  which  had 
the  aspect  of  stars,  looked  up  toward  heaven.  But  while 
I  was  there  in  a  maze,  and  watched  the  figure  in  a  trans- 
port of  delight,  there  occurred,  all  at  once,  something 
wonderful,  something  dreadful.  The  figure  rose  from  its 
knees,  dropped  its  arms,  turned  itself  around,  and  advanced 
straight  toward  me.  The  eyes,  which  had  been  turned  so 
purely  heavenward  before,  were  directed  to  me,  with  a  look 
which  pierced  my  breast  like  the  thrust  of  a  knife.  I  rec- 
ognized that  look — that  sad,  reproachful  glance.  It  was 
the  same  that  Marie  Antoinette  gave  me,  when  she  stood  on 
the  scaffold.  I  was  sitting  in  the  front  row  of  the  knitters, 
and  I  was  just  going  to  make  the  double  stitch  for  her  in 
my  stocking,  when  that  look  met  me ;  those  great,  sad  eyes 
were  turned  toward  me,  and  I  felt  that  she  had  recognized 
me,  and  her  eyes  bored  into  my  breast,  and  followed  me 
even  after  the  axe  had  taken  off  her  head.  The  eyes  did 
not  fall  into  the  basket,  they  were  not  buried,  but  they 
remain  in  my  breast;  they  have  been  piercing  me  ever 


THE   CONSULTATION.  441 

since,  and  burning  me  like  glowing  coals.  But  that  night 
I  saw  them  again,  as  in  life — those  dreadful  eyes;  and  as 
the  figure  advanced  toward  me,  it  raised  its  hand  and 
threatened  me,  and  its  eyes  spoke  to  me,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
a  curse  of  God  were  going  through  my  brain,  for  those  eyes 
said  to  me — 'Murder!' — spoke  it  so  loudly,  so  horribly,  that 
it  appeared  as  if  my  head  would  burst,  and  I  could  not  cry, 
and  could  not  move,  and  had  to  look  at  it,  till,  at  last,  I 
became  unconscious." 

"There,  see  there,  doctor,"  cried  Simon,  in  alarm,  as 
his  wife  fell  back  upon  the  pillow  with  a  loud  cry,  and 
quivered  in  all  her  limbs;  "now  she  has  convulsions  again, 
and  then  she  will  be,  for  a  day  or  two,  out  of  her  mind,  and 
will  talk  strangely  about  the  pale  woman  with  dreadful 
eyes;  and  when  she  goes  on  so,  she  makes  even  me  sad, 
and  anxious,  and  timid,  and  I  grow  afraid  of  the  white 
ghost  that  she  says  is  always  with  us.  Ah !  doctor,  help 
us!  See,  now,  how  the  poor  woman  suffers  and  twists!" 

The  doctor  drew  a  bottle  from  his  breast-pocket,  and 
rubbed  a  few  drops  upon  the  temples  of  the  sick  woman. 

"  Those  are  probably  the  famous  soothing-drops  of  Doc- 
tor Naudin?"  asked  Simon,  in  astonishment,  when  he  saw 
how  quiet  his  wife  became,  and  that  her  spasms  and  groans 
ceased. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  "  and  the  eminent  physician 
sends  them  as  a  present  to  your  wife.  They  are  very 
costly,  and  -rich  people  have  to  pay  a  louis-d'or  for  every 
drop.  But  Doctor  Naudin  gives  them  to  you,  for  he  wishes 
Jeanne  Marie  long  to  enjoy  good  health.  How  is  it  with 
you  now?" 

"I  feel  well,  completely  well,"  she  said,  as  the  doctor 
rubbed  some  drops  a  second  time  on  her  temple.  "  I  feel 
easier  than  I  have  felt  for  a  long  time." 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  said  the  doctor.  "Eise  up,  for 
you  are  well.  Let  us  go  into  the  chamber  of  the  poor  boy, 
for  I  have  to  speak  with  you  there." 

He  walked  toward  the  chamber-door,  leading  Jeanne 
Marie  by  the  hand,  while  Simon  followed  them.  Softly 
and  silently  they  entered  the  dark  room,  and  went  to  the 
mattress  on  which  the  child  lay. 

The  boy  stared  at  them  with  great,  wide-opened  eyes, 


442  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

but  they  were  without  expression  and  life,  and  only  the 
breath,  as  it  came  slowly  and  heavily  from  the  half-opened 
lips,  showed  that  there  was  vitality  still  in  this  poor,  little, 
shrunken  form. 

The  doctor  kneeled  down  beside  the  bed,  and,  bending 
over  it,  pressed  a  long,  fervent  kiss  on  the  delicate,  hot 
hand  of  the  child.  But  Charles  Louis  remained  motion- 
less; he  merely  slowly  dropped  his  lids  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

"You  see,  doctor,  he  neither  hears  nor  sees,"  said 
Simon,  in  a  low,  growling  voice.  "  He  cares  for  nothing, 
and  does  not  know  any  thing  about  what  is  going  on  around 
him.  It  is  a  week  since  he  spoke  a  word." 

"  Not  since  the  day  when  you  wanted  to  compel  the  child 
to  sing  the  song  that  makes  sport  of  his  mother." 

"He  did  not  sing  it?"  asked  the  doctor,  with  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"  He  is  a  mulish  little  toad,"  cried  Simon,  angrily.  "  I 
begged  him  at  first,  then  I  threatened,  and  when  prayers 
and  threats  were  of  no  use  I  punished  him,  as  a  naughty 
boy  deserves  when  he  will  not  do  what  his  foster-father 
bids  him  do.  But  even  blows  did  not  bring  him  to  it ;  the 
obstinate  youngster  would  not  sing  the  merry  song  with 
me,  and  since  then  he  has  not  spoken  a  word.*  He  seems 
as  if  he  had  grown  deaf  and  dumb  as  a  punishment  for  not 
obeying  his  good  foster-father." 

"He  is  neither  deaf  nor  dumb,"  said  the  doctor,  sol- 
emnly. "  He  is  simply  a  good  son,  who  would  not  sing  the 
song  which  made  sport  of  his  noble  and  unfortunate 
mother.  See  whether  I  am  not  right;  see  these  tears 
which  run  from  his  closed  eyes.  He  has  heard  us,  he  has 
understood  us,  and  he  answers  us  with  his  tears!  Oh,  sire," 
he  continued  passionately,  "  by  the  sacred  remembrance 
of  your  father  and  your  mother,  I  swear  devotion  to  you 
until  death ;  I  swear  that  I  have  come  to  set  you  free,  to 
die  for  you.  Look  up,  my  king  and  my  darling  one!  I 
intrust  to  you  and  to  both  these  witnesses  my  whole  secret; 
I  let  the  mask  fall  to  show  myself  to  you  in  my  true  form, 
that  you  may  confide  in  me,  and  know  that  the  most  de- 
voted of  your  servants  is  kneeling  before  you,  and  that  he 

*  Historical. —See  Beauchesne's  "Histoirede  Louis  XVII.,"  vol.  ii. 


THE  CONSULTATION.  443 

dedicates  his  life  to  you.  Open  your  eyes,  Louis  of  France, 
and  see  whether  you  know  me!" 

He  sprang  up,  threw  off  the  great  peruke,  and  the  long 
black  cloak,  and  stood  before  them  in  the  uniform  of  an 
official  guard. 

"  Thunder  and  guns!"  cried  Simon,  with  a  loud  laugh, 
"  it  is—" 

"Hush!"  interrupted  the  other — "hush!  He  alone 
shall  declare  who  I  am!  Oh,  look  at  me,  my  king;  con- 
vince these  unbelieving  ones  here  that  your  mind  is  clear 
and  strong,  and  that  you  are  conscious  of  what  is  going  on 
around  you.  Look  at  me,  and  if  you  know  me,  speak  my 
name!" 

And  with  folded  hands,  in  unspeakable  emotion,  he 
leaned  over  the  bed  of  the  child,  that  still  lay  with  closed 


"  I  knew  that  he  could  hear  nothing,  and  that  he  was 
deaf,"  growled  Simon,  while  his  wife  folded  her  trembling 
hands,  and  with  tearful  eyes  whispered  a  prayer. 

A  deep  silence  ensued,  and  with  anxious  expectation  each 
looked  at  the  boy.  At  length  he  slowly  raised  the  heavy, 
reddened  eyelids,  and  looked  with  a  timid,  anxious  glance 
around  himself.  Then  his  gaze  fixed  itself  upon  the  elo- 
quent, speaking  face  of  the  man  whose  tears  were  falling 
like  warm  dew-drops  upon  his  pale,  sunken  features. 

A  quiver  passed  over  the  coutenance  of  the  boy,  a  beam 
of  joy  lighted  up  his  eyes,  and  something  like  a  smile 
played  around  his  trembling  lips. 

"  Do  you  know  me?     Do  you  know  my  name?" 

The  child  raised  his  hand  in  salutation,  and  said,  in  a 
clear,  distinct  voice:  "Toulan!  Fidele!" 

Toulan  fell  on  his  knees  again  and  covered  the  little  thin 
hand  of  the  boy  with  his  tears  and  his  kisses. 

"  Yes,  Fidele,"  he  sobbed.  "  That  is  the  title  of  honor 
which  your  royal  mother  gave  me — that  is  the  name  that 
she  wrote  on  the  bit  of  paper  which  she  put  into  the  gold 
smelling-bottle  that  she  gave  me.  That  little  bottle, 
which  a  queen  once  carried,  is  my  most  precious  possession, 
and  yet  I  would  part  with  that  if  I  could  save  the  life  of 
her  son,  happy  if  I  could  but  retain  the  hallowed  paper  on 
which  the  queen's  hand  wrote  the  word  'Fiddle.'  Yes, 
29 


444  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

you  poor,  pitiable  son  of  kings,  I  am  Fidele,  I  am  Toulan, 
at  whom  you  have  so  often  laughed  when  he  played  with 
you  in  your  prison." 

A  flash  like  the  sunlight  passed  over  the  face  of  the 
child,  and  a  smile  illumined  his  features. 

"She  used  to  laugh,  too,"  he  whispered — "she,  too,  my 
mamma  queen." 

"Yes,  she  too  laughed  at  our  jests,"  said  Toulan,  with 
a  voice  choked  with  tears ;  "  and,  believe  me,  she  looks 
down  from  heaven  upon  us  and  smiles  her  blessing,  for  she 
knows  that  Toulan  has  come  to  free  her  dear  son,  and  to 
deliver  him  from  the  executioner's  hands.  Tell  me  now, 
my  king  and  my  dearly-loved  lord,  will  you  trust  me,  will 
you  give  to  your  most  devoted  servant  and  subject  the 
privilege  of  releasing  you  ?  Do  you  consent  to  accept  free- 
dom at  the  hands  of  your  Fidele?" 

The  child  threw  a  timid,  anxious  glance  at  Simon  and 
his  wife,  and  then,  with  a  shudder,  turned  his  head  to  one 
side. 

"  You  make  no  answer,  sire,"  said  Toulan,  imploringly. 
"Oh!  speak,  my  king,  may  I  set  you  free?" 

The  boy  spoke  a  few  words  in  reply,  but  so  softly  that 
Toulan  could  not  understand  him.  He  stooped  down 
nearer  to  him,  and  put  his  ear  close  to  the  lips  of  the  child. 
He  then  could  hear  the  words,  inaudible  to  all  but  him, 
"  He  will  disclose  you ;  take  care,  Toulan.  But  do  not  say 
any  thing,  else  he  will  beat  me  to  death!" 

Toulan  made  no  reply ;  he  only  impressed  a  long,  tender 
kiss  upon  the  trembling  hand  of  the  child. 

"Did  he  speak?"  asked  Simon.  " Did  you  understand, 
citizen,  what  he  said?" 

"  Yes,  I  understood  him,"  answered  Toulan.  "He  con- 
sents ;  he  allows  me  to  make  every  attempt  to  free  him, 
and  is  prepared  to  do  every  thing  that  we  ask  of  him. 
And  now  I  ask  you  too,  are  you  prepared  to  help  me  re- 
lease the  prince?" 

"You  know  already,  Toulan,"  said  Simon,  quickly, 
"  that  we  are  prepared  for  every  thing,  provided  that  our 
conditions  are  fulfilled.  Give  me  a  tolerable  position  out- 
side of  the  Temple ;  give  me  a  good  bit  of  money,  so  that 
I  may  live  free  from  care,  and  if  the  new  place  should  not 


THE   CONSULTATION.  445 

suit  me,  that  I  could  go  into  the  country,  and  not  have  to 
work  at  all ;  give  my  Jeanne  Marie  her  health  and  cheerful- 
ness again,  and  I  will  help  you  set  young  Capet  free." 

"  Through  my  assistance,  and  that  of  Doctor  Naudin, 
you  shall  have  a  good  place  outside  of  the  Temple,"  an- 
swered Toulan,  eagerly.  "  Besides  this,  at  the  moment 
when  you  deliver  the  prince  into  my  hands,  outside  of  this 
prison,  I  will  pay  you  in  ready  money  the  sum  of  twenty 
thousand  francs;  and  as  for  the  third  condition,  that  about 
restoring  her  health  to  Jeanne  Marie,  I  am  sure  that  I  can 
fulfil  this  condition  too.  Do  you  not  know,  Simon,  what 
your  wife  is  suffering  from?  Do  you  not  know  what  her 
sickness  is?" 

"  No,  truly  not.  I  am  no  doctor.  How  should  I  know 
what  her  sickness  is?" 

"Then  I  will  tell  you,  Citizen  Simon.  Your  wife  is 
suffering  from  the  worst  of  all  complaints,  a  bad  con- 
science !  Yes,  it  is  a  bad  conscience  that  robs  her  of  her 
sleep  and  rest ;  it  is  that  which  makes  her  see  the  white, 
pale  form  of  the  martyred  queen  in  the  night,  and  read 
the  word  'murderer'  in  her  eyes." 

"  He  is  right! — oh,  he  is  right!"  groaned  Jeanne  Marie, 
falling  on  her  knees.  "  I  am  to  blame  for  her  death,  for  I 
denounced  Toulan  to  the  authorities  just  when  he  was  on 
the  point  of  saving  her.  I  tortured  her! — oh,  cruelly  tor- 
tured her,  and  I  laughed  when  she  ascended  the  scaffold, 
and  I  laughed  too,  even  when  she  gave  me  that  dreadful 
look.  But  I  have  bitterly  regretted  it  since,  and  now  she 
gnaws  at  me  like  a  scorpion.  I  wanted  to  drive  her  away 
from  me  at  first,  and  therefore  I  was  cruel  to  her  son,  for 
I  wanted  to  put  an  end  to  the  fearful  remorse  that  was  tor- 
menting me.  But  it  grew  even  more  powerful  within  me. 
The  more  I  beat  the  boy,  the  more  his  tears  moved  me,  and 
often  I  thought  I  should  die  when  I  heard  him  cry  and 
moan.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  a  bad  conscience  that  has  made  me 
sick  and  miserable !  But  I  will  do  right  after  this.  I  re- 
pent— oh,  I  repent !  Here  I  lay  my  hand  on  the  heart  of 
this  child  and  swear  to  his  murdered  mother  I  will  do  right 
again !  I  swear  that  I  will  free  her  son !  I  swear  by  all 
that  is  sacred  in  heaven  and  on  earth  that  I  will  die  my- 
self, unless  we  succeed  in  freeing  this  child!  I  swear  to 


446  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

you,  Marie  Antoinette,  that  I  will  free  him.  But  will  you 
forgive  me  even  then?  Will  you  have  rest  in  your  poor 
grave,  and  not  come  to  my  bedside  and  condemn  me  and 
accuse  me  with  your  sad,  dreadful  eyes?" 

"Free  her  son,  Jeanne  Marie,"  said  Toulan,  solemnly, 
"  and  his  mother  will  forgive  you,  and  her  hallowed  shade 
will  no  longer  disturb  your  sleep,  for  you  will  then  have 
restored  to  her  the  peace  of  the  grave!  But  you,  Citizen 
Simon,  will  you  too  not  swear  that  you  will  faithfully  as- 
sist in  releasing  the  royal  prince?  Do  you  not  know  that 
conscience  is  awake  in  your  heart  too,  and  compels  you  to 
have  compassion  on  the  poor  boy?" 

"I  know  it,  yes,  I  know  it,"  muttered  Simon,  confused. 
"  His  gentle  eyes  and  his  sad  bearing  have  made  me  as 
weak  and  as  soft  as  an  old  woman.  It  is  high  time  that  I 
should  be  rid  of  the  youngster,  else  it  will  be  with  me  just 
as  it  is  with  my  wife,  and  I  shall  have  convulsions  and  see 
ghosts  with  daggers  in  their  eyes.  And  so,  in  order  to 
remain  a  strong  man  and  have  a  good  conscience  and  a 
brave  heart,  I  must  be  rid  of  the  boy,  and  must  know  that 
I  have  done  him  some  service,  and  have  been  his  deliverer. 
And  so  I  swear  by  the  sacred  republic,  and  by  our  hallowed 
freedom,  that  I  will  help  you  and  do  all  that  in  me  lies  to 
release  little  Capet  and  get  him  away  from  here.  I  hope 
you  will  be  satisfied  with  my  oath,  Toulan,  for  there  is 
nothing  for  me  more  sacred  than  the  republic  and 
freedom." 

"  I  am  satisfied,  Simon,  and  I  trust  you.  And  now  let 
us  talk  it  all  over  and  consider  it,  my  dear  allies.  The 
whole  plan  of  the  escape  is  formed  in  my  head,  all  the 
preparations  are  made,  and  if  you  will  faithfully  follow  all 
that  I  bid  you,  in  one  week's  time  you  will  be  free  and 
happy." 

"  So  soon  as  a  week!"  cried  Simon,  delightedly. 

"  Yes,  in  a  week,  for  it  happens  fortunately  that  one  of 
the  officials  of  the  Public  Safety  service  is  dangerously  sick 
and  has  been  carried  to  the  Hotel  Dieu.  Doctor  Naudin 
says  that  he  can  live  but  three  days  longer,  and  then  the 
post  will  be  vacant.  We  must  be  active,  therefore,  and 
take  measures  for  you  to  gain  the  place.  Now  listen  to 
me,  and  mark  my  words." 


THE   CONSULTATION.  447 

They  had  a  long  conversation  by  the  bedside  of  the  little 
prince,  and  they  saw  that  he  perfectly  understood  the 
whole  plan  which  Toulan  unfolded  in  eloquent  words,  for 
his  looks  took  on  a  great  deal  of  expression ;  he  fixed  his 
eyes  constantly  on  Toulan,  and  a  smile  played  about  his 
lips. 

Simon  and  Simon's  wife  were  also  perfectly  satisfied  with 
Toulan's  communication,  and  repeated  their  readiness  to 
do  every  thing  to  further  the  release  of  the  prince,  if  they 
in  return  could  only  be  removed  from  the  Temple. 

"  I  will  at  once  take  the  steps  necessary  to  the  success  of 
my  plan,"  said  Toulan,  taking  his  leave  with  a  friendly 
nod,  and  kissing  the  boy's  hand  respectfully. 

"  Fidele,"  whispered  Louis,  "  Fidele,  do  you  believe  that 
I  shall  be  saved?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  my  dear  prince.  The  grace  of  God 
and  the  blessing  of  your  exalted  parents  will  be  our  helpers 
in  bringing  this  good  work  to  a  completion.  Farewell, 
and  preserve  as  long  as  you  remain  here  the  same  mood 
that  I  found  you  in.  Show  little  interest  in  what  goes  on, 
and  appear  numb  and  stupid.  I  shall  not  come  again,  for 
after  this  I  must  work  for  you  outside  of  the  prison.  But 
Doctor  Naudin  will  come  every  day  to  see  you,  and  on  the 
day  of  your  flight  I  shall  be  by  your  side.  Till  then,  God 
bless  you,  my  dear  prince!"  - 

Toulan  left  the  prison  of  the  little  Capet  and  repaired 
at  once  to  the  Hotel  Dieu,  where  he  had  a  long  conversa- 
tion with  Doctor  Naudin.  At  the  end  of  it,  the  director  of 
the  hospital  entered  his  carriage  and  drove  to  the  city  hall, 
in  whose  largest  chamber  a  committee  of  the  Public  Safety 
officials  were  holding  a  public  meeting.  With  earnest  and 
urgent  words  the  revered  and  universally  valued  physician 
gave  the  report  about  the  visits  which  he  had  made  at  the 
Temple  for  some  days  at  the  command  of  the  authorities, 
and  about  the  condition  of  affairs  there.  Petion  the  elder, 
the  presiding  officer  of  the  committee,  listened  to  the  re- 
port with  a  grave  repose,  and  the  picture  of  the  low  health 
of  the  "little  Capet,"  while  he  paid  the  most  marked  at- 
tention to  that  part  of  the  report  which  concerned  the 
Simons. 

"  Citizen  Simon  has  deserved  much  of  the  country,  and 


448  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

he  is  one  of  the  most  faithful  supporters  of  the  one  and  in- 
divisible republic,"  said  Petion,  when  Doctor  Naudin 
ended  his  report.  "  The  republic  must,  like  a  grateful 
mother,  show  gratitude  to  her  loyal  sons,  and  care  for 
them  tenderly.  So  tell  us,  Citizen  Naudin,  what  must  be 
done  in  order  to  restore  health  to  Citizen  Simon  and  his 
wife." 

"  They  are  both  sick  from  the  same  cause,  and,  there- 
fore, they  both  require  the  same  remedy.  That  remedy  is, 
a  change  of  air  and  a  change  of  location.  Let  Simon  have 
another  post,  where  he  shall  be  allowed  to  exercise  freely 
out  of  doors,  and  where  he  shall  not  be  compelled  to  breathe 
only  the  confined  air  of  a  cell ;  and  let  his  wife  not  be 
forced  to  listen  to  the  whining  and  the  groaning  of  the 
little  sick  Capet.  In  one  word,  give  to  them  both  liberty 
to  move  around,  and  the  free  air,  and  they  will,  without 
any  doubt,  and  within  a  short  time,  regain  their  health." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Petiou,  "  the  poor  people  lead  a  sad 
life  in  the  Temple,  and  are  compelled  to  breathe  the  air 
that  the  last  scions  of  tyranny  have  contaminated  with 
their  poisonous  breaths.  We  owe  it  to  them  to  release 
them  from  this  bad  atmosphere,  in  consideration  of  their 
faithful  and  zealous  service  to  the  country.  Citizen  Simon 
has  always  taken  pains  to  repair  the  great  neglect  in 
Capet's  education,  and  to  make  the  worthless  boy  prove 
some  day  a  worthy  son  of  the  republic." 

"  But  even  if  Simon  should  remain  in  the  Temple,  he 
would  not  be  able  to  go  on  much  longer  with  the  education 
of  the  boy,"  said  the  hospital  director,  wth  a  shrug. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  citizen  doctor?"  asked 
Petion,  with  a  pleasant  lighting  up  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  mean  that  the  boy  has  not  a  long  time  to  live,  for  he 
is  suffering  at  once  from  consumption  and  softening  of  the 
brain,  and  the  latter  disease  will  soon  reduce  him  to  an 
idiot,  and  render  him  incapable  of  receiving  instruction." 

"  You  are  convinced  that  the  son  of  the  tyrants  will  not 
recover?"  asked  Petion,  with  a  strained,  eager  glance. 

"  My  careful  examination  of  his  case  has  convinced  me 
that  he  has  but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  that  he  will  spend 
the  larger  part  of  this  time  in  an  idiotic  state.  On  this  ac- 
count Simon  ought  to  be  removed  from  the  Temple,  in 


THE   CONSULTATION.  449 

order  that  his  enemies  may  not  be  able  to  circulate  a"  re- 
port about  this  zealous  and  worthy  servant  of  the  republic, 
that  he  is  guilty  of  the  death  of  little  Capet — that  Simon's 
method  of  bringing  him  up  killed  him.  And  besides,  in 
order  that  the  same  charge  should  not  be  laid  to  the  one 
and  great  republic,  and  it  be  accused  of  cruelty  to  a  poor 
sick  child,  kindly  attentions  should  be  bestowed  on  him." 

Petion 's  countenance  clouded,  and  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  physician  with  a  sinister,  searching  expression. 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  of  sensibility,  doctor,  and  you 
appear  to  forget  that  the  boy  is  a  criminal  by  birth,  and 
that  the  republic  can  have  no  special  sympathy  with 
him." 

"For  me,"  answered  Nau din,  with  simplicity,  "every 
sick  person  at  whose  bed  I  am  called  to  stand,  is  a  poor, 
pitiable  human  being,  and  I  never  stop  to  think  whether 
he  is  a  criminal  or  not,  but  merely  that  he  is  a  sufferer,  and 
then  I  endeavor  to  discover  the  means  to  assist  him.  The 
hallowed  and  indivisible  republic,  however,  is  an  altogether 
too  magnanimous  and  exalted  mother  of  all  her  children 
not  to  have  pity  on  those  who  are  reduced  to  idiocy,  and  in 
sore  sickness.  The  republic  is  like  the  sun,  which  pours 
its  beams  even  into  the  dungeon  of  the  criminal,  and  shines 
upon  the  just  and  unjust  alike." 

"  And  what  do  you  desire  that  the  republic  should  do  for 
the  offspring  of  tyrants?"  asked  Petion,  peevishly. 

"I  desire  not  much,"  answered  Naudin,  with  a  smile. 
"  Let  me  be  permitted  to  visit  the  sick  child  from  time  to 
time,  and  in  his  hopeless  condition  to  procure  him  a  little 
relief  from  his  sufferings  at  least,  and  let  him  be  treated 
like  the  child  he  is.  Let  a  little  diversion  be  allowed  him. 
If  it  is  not  possible  or  practicable  for  him  to  play  with 
children  of  his  age,  let  him  at  least  have  some  playthings 
for  his  amusement." 

"  Do  you  demand  in  earnest  that  the  republic  should 
condescend  to  provide  playthings  for  her  imprisoned  crim- 
inals?" asked  Petion,  with  a  scornful  laugh. 

"  You  have  commanded  me  to  visit  the  sick  boy  in  the 
Temple,  to  examine  his  condition,  and  to  prescribe  the 
necessary  remedies  for  his  recovery.  I  can  offer  no  hope 
of  recovery  to  the  patient,  but  I  can  afford  him  some  relief 


450  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

from  his  sufferings.  Some  of  my  medicines  are  called 
playthings  !  It  lies  with  you  to  decide  whether  the  repub- 
lic will  refuse  these  medicines  to  the  sick  one." 

"  And  you  say  that  the  little  Capet  is  incurable?"  asked 
Petion,  eagerly. 

"Incurable,  citizen  representative." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Petion,  with  a  cold  smile,  "the  re- 
public can  afford  to  provide  the  last  of  the  Capets  with 
toys.  They  have  for  centuries  toyed  fearlessly  with  the 
happiness  of  the  people,  and  the  last  thing  which  the  peo- 
ple of  France  give  back  to  the  tyrants  is  some  toy  with  which 
they  may  amuse  themselves  on  the  way  to  eternity.  Citi- 
zen doctor,  your  demands  shall  be  complied  with.  The 
first  place  which  shall  become  vacant  shall  be  given  to 
Citizen  Simon,  that  he  may  be  released  from  prison  and 
enjoy  his  freedom.  The  little  Capet  will  be  provided  with 
playthings,  and,  besides,  you  are  empowered  to  give  him 
all  needful  remedies  for  his  relief.  It  is  your  duty  to  care 
for  the  sick  child  until  its  death." 


CHAPTEE    XXVII. 

THE    HOBBY-HOESE. 

IN  accordance  with  the  instructions  of  Petion,  playthings 
were  procured  and  carried  into  the  gloomy  chamber  of  the 
prince  on  the  very  next  day,  and  set  by  the  side  of  the  sick 
boy.  But  Mistress  Simon  labored  in  vain  trying  to  amuse 
the  little  Louis  with  them.  The  men  danced,  the  wooden 
cocks  crowed,  the  dogs  barked,  and  to  all  these  sounds  the 
child  paid  no  heed ;  it  did  not  once  open  its  eyes,  nor  care 
in  the  least  for  the  many-colored  things  which  the  officials 
had  brought  him. 

"We  must  try  something  else,"  said  the  compassionate 
officer.  "  Do  you  know  any  plaything  which  would  be 
likely  to  please  little  Louis  Capet?" 

"Give  him  a  riding-horse,"  cried  Simon,  with  a  coarse 
laugh.  "  I  am  convinced  if  the  obstinate  youngster  should 
hear  that  there  was  a  riding-horse  outside,  and  that  he 
might  ride  through  Paris,  he  would  be  well  on  the  spot  and 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  451 

get  up.  It  is  pure  deceit,  his  lying  there  so  pale  and  with- 
out interest  in  any  thing  about  him." 

"  You  are  very  cruel,  citizen,"  muttered  the  official,  with 
a  compassionate  glance  at  the  child. 

"Cruel?  Yes,  I  am  cruel!"  said  Simon,  grimly.  "But 
it  is  the  cursed  prison  air  that  has  made  me  so.  If  I  stay 
here  a  week  longer,  Jeanne  Marie  will  die,  and  I  shall  be- 
come crazy.  The  director  of  the  hospital  told  us  this,  and 
you  know,  citizen,  that  he  is  the  most  clever  doctor  in  all 
France.  See  if  you  would  not  be  cruel  if  you  had  such  an 
idea  as  that  in  your  head!" 

"  Well,  citizen,  you  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  it  will  not  last  long,"  answered  the  officer, 
consolingly.  "  The  first  vacancy  is  to  be  given  to  you." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  will  come  soon,  then,"  said  Simon,  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  will  take  a  vow  to  you.  If,  in  a  week,  I  shall 
be  released  from  this  place,  and  get  a  good  situation,  I  will 
give  little  Capet  a  horse  to  remember  me  by.  That  is,  not 
a  horse  on  which  he  might  ride  out  of  prison,  but  a  wooden 
one,  on  which  he  can  ride  in  prison.  Say,  little  Capet," 
called  Simon,  stooping  over  the  bed  of  the  child,  "  would 
you  not  like  to  have  a  nice  wooden  horse  to  play  with?" 

Over  the  pale  lips  of  the  boy  played  the  faint  tint  of  a 
smile,  and  he  opened  his  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  said,  softly — 
"yes;  I  should  like  to  have  a  wooden  horse,  and  I  should 
have  a  good  time  with  it." 

"Come,  citizen,"  said  Simon,  solemnly,  "I  take  you  to 
witness  my  vow.  If  I  receive  another  place,  I  give  a  hob- 
by-horse to  little  Capet.  You  grant  me  the  privilege, 
citizen?" 

"  I  allow  you,  Citizen  Simon,  and  I  will  report  the  mat- 
ter to  the  Public  Welfare  Committee,  that  it  shall  surprise 
no  one  by  and  by,  and  I  am  sure  no  one  will  gainsay  you 
in  your  praiseworthy  offer.  For  it  certainly  is  praise- 
worthy to  prepare  a  pleasure  for  a  sick  child ;  and  the  great 
republic,  which  is  the  gracious  mother  of  all  Frenchmen, 
will  pity  the  poor  child,  too.  I  wish  you  success,  citizen, 
in  the  fulfilment  of  all  your  hopes,  and  trust  that  you  will 
speedily  be  released  from  your  trying  imprisonment." 

And,  in  fact,  this  release  did  not  have  to  be  waited  for 
long.  A  few  days  brought  the  accomplishment  of  Doctor 


452  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Naudin's  prophecy,  and  the  official  guard,  who  was  then 
sick  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  died.  The  director  of  the  hospital 
hastened  to  inform  the  authorities  of  this  event,  and  on 
the  same  day  Simon  was  appointed  his  successor.  The 
same  official  who  had  brought  the  sick  prince  the  play- 
things, came  again  to  inform  Simou  of  his  release,  and 
was  delighted  at  the  stormy  outbreak  of  rapturous  joy  with 
which  the  tidings  were  received. 

"We  will  be  off  directly,"  cried  Simon.  "Our  things 
have  all  been  packed  for  three  days,  and  every  thing  is 
ready." 

"But  you  must  wait  patiently  till  to-morrow,  my 
friends,"  said  the  official,  with  a  smile.  "Your  successor 
cannot  enter  upon  his  duties  here  in  the  Temple  before  to- 
morrow morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  till  then  you  must  be 
content  to  wait  quietly." 

"That  is  sad,"  sighed  Simon.  "The  time  between  now 
and  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  will  lie  like  lead  upon 
my  shoulders.  I  assure  you,  citizen,  the  Temple  could  get 
along  without  me  for  one  night.  The  two  Misses  Capet 
above  stairs  are  locked  up,  and  as  for  the  little  Capet  down 
here,  it  is  not  necessary  to  lock  him  up,  for  he  will  not  run 
away,  but  lie  quietly  here  upon  his  mattress." 

"  So  the  child  is  really  very  sick?"  asked  the  officer,  with 
feeling. 

"Not  exactly  very  sick,"  answered  Simon,  indifferently; 
"but  Doctor  Naudin,  who  visits  him  every  day,  thinks 
that  the  youngster  might  not  be  all  right  in  the  head,  and 
he  has  ordered,  on  this  account,  that  his  long  thick  hair 
should  be  cut  off,  that  his  head  might  be  a  little  cooler.  So 
Jeanne  Marie  is  going  to  cut  it  off,  and  that  will  probably 
be  the  last  service  that  she  will  have  to  do  for  him.  We  are 
going  to  clear  out  of  this — we  are  going  to  clear  out  of  this !" 

"  And  have  you  really  nothing  more  to  do  for  the  little 
Capet,  than  merely  to  cut  off  his  hair?"  asked  the  officer 
with  a  fixed,  searching  look. 

"No,"  answered  Simon,  with  a  laugh;  "nothing  but 
that.  Oh !  yes,  there  is  something  else.  I  did  not  think 
of  that.  My  vow  to  you !  I  forgot  that.  I  swore  that,  if 
I  were  to  get  away  from  here,  I  would  give  little  Capet  a 
hobby-horse." 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  453 

"I  am  glad,  Citizen  Simon,  that  you  remember  your 
promise,"  said  the  officer,  gravely.  "I  must  tell  you  that 
the  Public  Welfare  Committee,  to  which  I  communicated 
your  intention,  was  very  curious  to  know  whether  Citizen 
Simon  would  remember  to  carry  it  into  effect.  It  is  on 
this  account  that  I  was  instructed  to  inform  you  of  your 
transfer,  and  to  report  to  them  whether  you  intended  to 
keep  your  promise.  Your  superiors  will  rejoice  to  learn 
that  you  are  a  man  of  honor,  with  whom  it  is  a  sacred  duty 
to  keep  his  word ;  and  who,  in  prosperous  days,  does  not 
forget  to  do  what  he  promised  to  do  in  less  propitious 
times.  So,  go  and  buy  for  little  Capet  the  promised  hobby- 
horse, and  I  will  inform  the  Welfare  Committee  that  it 
was  not  necessary  for  me  to  remind  you  of  your  vow,  and 
that  you  are  not  only  a  good  citizen,  but  a  good  man  as 
well.  Go  and  buy  the  plaything,  and  make  your  arrange- 
ments to  leave  the  Temple  to-morrow  morning  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  to  enter  upon  your  new  duties  as  collector  of 
customs  at  Porte  Macon." 

"  The  great  bell  of  Notre  Dame  will  not  have  growled 
out  its  ten  strokes  to-morrow  morning,  before  Jeanne  Marie 
and  I,  with  our  goods,  will  have  left  the  place,"  replied 
Simon,  with  a  laugh.  "  And  now  I  will  run  and  fulfil  my 
promise."  He  clapped  his  red-flannel  cap  upon  his  black, 
thick  hair,  and  left  the  Temple  with  a  hurried  step.  As 
the  porter  opened  the  door  of  the  court  which  led  to  the 
street,  for  the  worthy  citizen  and  "man  of  honor,"  Simon 
stopped  a  moment  to  chat,  telling  him  of  his  new  situation, 
and  of  the  vow  which  he  was  about  to  discharge. 

"Do  not  wonder,  therefore,  citizen,"  he  said,  "if  you 
see  me  come  back,  by-and-by,  with  a  horse — with  this  dis- 
tinction, that  it  will  not  be  the  horse  that  carries  me,  but 
that  it  will  be  I  that  will  carry  the  horse.  I  was  such  a 
fool  as  to  promise  little  Capet  a  horse,  and  I  must  keep  my 
word,  particularly  as  the  Committee  of  Safety  allows  it." 

"Well,  if  that  is  so,"  said  the  porter,  with  mock  gravity, 
"  I  shall  let  you  in,  even  if  you  do  not  make  your  appear- 
ance until  night.  With  the  permission  of  the  Safety  Com- 
mittee, every  thing;  without  it,  nothing — for  I  want  to 
keep  my  head  a  little  longer  on  my  shoulders." 

"And  I  do  not  grudge  you  the  privilege,"  said  Simon, 


454  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

with  a  broad  grin.  "  We  know  very  little  about  what  we 
have  here,  but  much  less  about  the  place  where  the  dear 
machine  takes  us.  But,  if  you  like,  you  can  ask  Roger, 
the  official  guard,  whether  I  have  permission  to  bring  the 
wooden  horse  into  the  Temple.  He  is  inside,  and  will 
probably  be  there  when  I  come  back." 

He  nodded  to  the  porter,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Simon  stopped  a  moment, 
and  cast  a  quick  glance  up  and  down  the  street.  Above, 
at  the  corner  of  the  little  cross-street,  stood  quietly  a  young 
commissioner  in  his  blouse,  apparently  waiting  for  some 
one  to  employ  him.  Simon  crossed  the  street  and  went  up 
to  him. 

"Well,"  asked  the  latter  aloud,  "have  you  any  thing  for 
me  to  do,  citizen?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Simon,  softly  and  quickly.  "Yes, 
Toulan,  I  am  all  ready  for  you.  To-morrow  morning,  at 
ten  o'clock,  I  leave  the  Temple."  . 

"I  know  it,"  whispered  Toulan.  "But  speak  loudly. 
There  stands  a  man  who  seems  to  be  watching  us." 

"Come,"  cried  Simon,  loudly.  "I  want  you  to  accom- 
pany me  to  a  store  where  they  sell  playthings,  and  after- 
ward you  must  help  carry  back  what  I  buy,  for  it  will  be 
too  large  and  too  heavy  for  me  alone." 

Toulan  followed  him  without  replying,  and  the  two  went 
quietly  and  with  an  air  of  indifference  through  the  busy 
crowd  of  men.  At  the  corner  of  a  neighboring  street  the 
commissioner  came  in  gentle  contact  with  another,  who 
was  standing  on  the  curbstone,  and  was  looking  earnestly 
down  the  street. 

"Beg  pardon,  citizen,"  said  Toulan,  loudly,  and  then 
added,  softly,  "to-morrow  morning,  at  ten  o'clock.  The 
washerwomen  will  take  charge  of  the  dirty  linen  at  the 
door.  At  exactly  ten  the  wagons  and  the  boys  must  start. 
The  hobby-horse  will  be  filled." 

"Yes,  it  shall  be  filled,"  and,  with  an  indifferent  air,  he 
passed  by  the  two,  and  walked  down  the  Helder  street. 
The  farther  he  went  the  more  rapid  became  his  steps,  and 
when  he  at  last  entered  a  narrow,  solitary  alley,  where  he 
might  hope  to  be  less  observed,  his  quick  walk  became  a 
run,  which  he  continued  till  he  reached  the  Rue  Vivienne. 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE.  455 

He  then  moderated  his  pace,  and  went  quietly  into  a  toy- 
shop, whose  attractive  windows  and  open  door  were  directed 
to  the  street.  The  clerk,  who  stood  behind  the  counter, 
asked,  with  a  quiet  air,  what  he  desired. 

"First,  allow  me  to  sit  down,  citizen,"  answered  the 
commissioner,  as  he  sank  upon  the  rush-chair  which  stood 
before  the  counter.  "  There,  and  now,  if  you  want  to  do 
me  a  service,  just  give  me  a  glass  of  water." 

"Halloo,  John,"  cried  the  clerk  to  the  errand-boy,  who 
was  standing  in  the  back  part  of  the  store.  "  Bring  a  glass 
of  water  from  the  well !  Hasten!" 

The  boy  took  a  glass  and  sprang  out  of  the  door  into  the 
street. 

"In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  will  be  here,"  said  the 
commissioner,  quickly.  "  Inform  the  marquis,  if  you 
please." 

''The  cabinet-maker,  Lamber,  you  mean,"  whispered 
the  clerk.  "  He  is  not  as  far  away  as  you ;  he  lives  directly 
opposite,  and  he  has  been  standing  all  day  at  the  house- 
door  waiting  for  the  sign." 

"Then  give  it  to  him,  dear  baron,"  said  the  commis- 
sioner; and  as  the  boy  came  in  just  then  with  the  water, 
he  hastily  seized  the  glass,  and  took  a  swallow  so  immense 
as  to  perfectly  satisfy  the  boy,  who  was  looking  at  him. 

The  clerk  had,  in  the  mean  time,  gone  to  the  shop- 
door,  and  looking  across  at  the  opposite  house,  he  drew  a 
blue  handkerchief,  with  a  red  border,  from  his  pocket,  and 
slowly  raised  it  to  his  face. 

The  man  in  the  blouse,  standing  at  the  door  of  the  low 
house  across  the  street,  nodded  slightly,  and  stepped  back 
out  of  sight. 

"  Well,"  cried  the  commissioner,  "  now  that  I  have  taken 
breath,  and  have  had  a  good  drink,  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
have  run  so.  I  have  directed  a  citizen  to  you  who  wants 
to  buy  some  playthings,  and  something  very  fine,  I  sup- 
pose, as  he  brings  a  commissioner  along  with  him  to  carry 
the  things  home.  Now  I  want  to  know  what  per  cent,  of 
the  profit  you  get  from  him  you  are  willing  to  give  me, 
for  you  cannot  expect,  citizen,  that  I  should  give  my  rec- 
ommendation gratis." 

"lam  not  the  owner  of  the  store,"  replied  the  clerk, 


456  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

with  a  shrug.  "  I  have  been  here  only  a  week,  and  man- 
age the  business  merely  while  the  owner  is  absent  for  a 
short  time  on  a  necessary  journey.  So  I  can  give  no  fees. 
But  ask  the  boy  whether  in  such  cases  Mr.  Duval  has  paid 
money.  He  has  been  here  longer  than  I." 

"  Mr.  Duval  has  paid  every  commissioner,  who  has 
brought  him  such  news,  two  centums  on  the  franc,"  said 
the  boy,  with  an  important  air. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  give  you  two  centums  on  the  franc, 
provided  that  the  citizen  buys  more  than  a  franc's 
worth." 

"Aha!  there  comes  the  man,"  cried  the  commissioner, 
pointing  at  Simon,  who  just  then  entered  the  store  with 
Toulan.  "  Well,  citizen,  now  make  a  very  handsome 
purchase,  for  the  more  you  buy,  the  better  I  shall  like 
it." 

"Yes,  I  believe  you,"  replied  Simon,  laughing;  "that 
is  the  way  in  all  stores.  I  want  something  nice ;  I  want  to 
buy  a  hobby-horse.  But  mind  you,  citizen,  show  me  one 
of  your  best  ones,  a  real  blood-horse,  for  I  tell  you  that  he 
who  is  to  ride  it  is  of  real  blood  himself." 

"  We  happen  unfortunately  to  have  a  limited  supply  of 
the  article,"  said  the  clerk,  with  a  shrug.  "They  do  not 
come  exactly  in  our  line.  But  there  has  been  so  much  de- 
mand for  hobby-horses  of  late  that  we  have  ordered  some, 
and  if  you  will  wait  a  few  days,  citizen — " 

"  A  few  days!"  interrupted  Simon,  angrily.  "  Not  a  few 
hours,  not  a  few  minutes  will  I  wait.  If  you  have  no 
hobby-horses,  tell  me,  and  I  will  go  elsewhere  to  make  my 
purchases." 

He  turned  to  go,  but  the  clerk  held  him  back.  "  Wait 
only  a  minute,"  he  said.  "I  should  not  like  to  lose  your 
custom,  and  I  think  it  possible  that  I  can  procure  you  a 
fine  horse.  The  cabinet-maker,  who  makes  our  horses, 
lives  just  opposite,  and  he  has  promised  to  deliver  them  to- 
morrow. The  boy  shall  go  over  and  see  if  they  are  not 
ready." 

"  We  would  rather  go  over  with  him,  citizen.  If  we  find 
what  is  wanted,  we  shall  need  to  go  no  farther." 

"It  is  true,  that  will  be  the  best  course,"  said  Simon. 
"Come,  commissioner." 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  457 

"  I  will  go  along  to  have  the  business  all  rightly  done," 
said  the  clerk.  "  Here,  John,  take  my  place  behind  the 
counter  while  I  am  gone." 

Simon  had  already  crossed  the  street  by  the  side  of 
Toulan.  The  clerk  followed  with  the  second  commissioner. 

"Why  have  you  not  got  rid  of  the  boy,  Count  St.  Prix?" 
asked  the  latter. 

"  It  was  impossible,  Count  Frotte,"  answered  the  former 
in  a  whisper.  "  Duval  is  a  very  nervous  man,  and  he  sup- 
posed that  it  would  excite  suspicion  if  the  boy,  who  is  well 
known  in  the  neighborhood,  should  disappear  at  just  the 
time  when  he  should  be  away.  He  is  right,  perhaps,  and 
at  any  rate  the  thing  is  unavoidable.  The  sly  chore-boy 
has  noticed  nothing,  I  hope,  and  we  shall  reach  our  goal 
without  any  hindrance.  You  are  going  to  London  to- 
morrow morning?" 

"Yes,  count.     And  you?  what  is  your  direction?" 

"To  Coblentz,  to  the  royal  princes,"  replied  Count  St. 
Prix.  "  Only  I  suspect  that  we  shall  not  both  of  us  reach 
the  end  of  our  journeys." 

"  At  any  rate  not  with  the  children  that  we  shall  take 
with  us,"  whispered  the  other,  as  they  entered  the  house 
of  the  cabinet-maker. 

They  found  Simon  and  Toulan  in  the  large  workshop 
busily  engaged  in  bargaining  with  the  cabinet-maker,  who 
had  shown  them  six  tolerably  large  hobby-horses,  and  was 
descanting  on  their  beauties. 

"It  seems  tome  they  all  look  very  much  alike,"  said 
Simon.  "  Tell  me,  commissioner,  which  of  these  race- 
horses pleases  you  best." 

"  This  with  the  red  flanks,"  said  Toulan,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  largest  one. 

"It  is  an  immense  creature,"  said  Simon,  with  a  laugh. 
"Still,  the  red  flanks  are  pretty,  and  if  we  can  agree 
about  the  price  I  will  buy  the  animal." 

They  did  agree,  and  after  Simon  had  gravely  paid  the 
twenty  francs,  he  and  Toulan  took  the  horse  on  their 
shoulders  and  marched  down  the  street. 

"Do  all  those  people  know  about  our  secret?"  asked 
Simon,  as  they  strode  forward. 

"No,  only  the  cabinet-maker  knows  about  it,  and  he 


458  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HEE   SON. 

will  leave  Paris  to-morrow  and  carry  the  prince  to  a  place 
of  safety." 

"For  God's  sake,  do  not  speak  so  loudly!"  whispered 
Simon,  casting  an  anxious  look  around.  "  But  why  do  you 
yourself  not  go  away  with  the  boy  and  leave  Paris,  where 
you  are  constantly  in  danger?" 

"I  cannot,"  answered  Toulan,  solemnly. 

"Cannot!  what  forbids  you?" 

"  The  vow  that  I  gave  to  Marie  Antoinette,  to  rescue  her 
children  from  the  Temple  or  to  die." 

"  Well,  but  to-morrow  you  hope  to  fulfil  your  vow,  and 
then  you  can  go." 

"  I  shall  fulfil  to-morrow  but  the  half  of  my  vow.  I 
shall,  if  you  help  me,  and  my  plan  succeeds,  release  the 
son  of  the  queen,  but  the  daughter  will  remain  behind  in 
prison.  You  see,  therefore,  that  I  cannot  leave  Paris,  for 
the  daughter  and  sister-in-law  of  the  queen  are  still  pris- 
oners, and  I  must  release  them." 

"But  I  should  rather  that  you  would  go  away  with  the 
boy,  and  never  come  back  to  Paris,"  said  Simon,  thought- 
fully. 

"  How  so?     Do  you  not  trust  me?" 

"I  trust  no  one,"  replied  Simon,  gloomily.  "You 
might  some  day,  when  it  might  suit  your  humor,  or  in 
order  to  save  yourself,  betray  me,  and  report  me  to  the 
Committee  of  Safety." 

"What,  I!  And  ought  I  not  to  fear  too?  Could  not 
you  betray  me  as  well?" 

"  You  know  very  well  that  I  shall  take  care  not  to  dis- 
close a  word  of  this  whole  history,  for  to  disclose  it  would 
be  to  write  my  own  death-warrant.  But  hush,  now ;  hush ! 
there  is  the  Temple,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  very 
walls  looked  at  me  maliciously,  as  if  they  wanted  to  say, 
'There  comes  a  traitor!'  Ah,  Toulan,  it  is  a  bad  thing  to 
have  an  accusing  conscience!" 

"  Help  me  faithfully  to  save  the  prince,  Simon,  and  you 
will  have  a  good  conscience  all  the  rest  of  your  life,  for  you 
will  have  done  a  grand  and  noble  deed." 

"In  your  eyes,"  whispered  Simon,  "but  not  in  those  of 
the  Convention,  and  when  they  learn  about  it — but  here 
we  are,  and  our  talk  and  reconsideration  are  too  late." 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE.  459 

He  struck  three  times  with  his  fist  against  the  closed 
gate  of  the  outer  court.  The  porter  opened,  and  let  the 
two  men  in,  only  saying  that  the  guard  had  given  his 
special  consent  to  the  bringing  in  of  the  hobby-horse. 

"  But  about  the  commissioner  whom  you  bring  with 
you,"  said  the  porter,  reflectively,  "he  did  not  make  any 
mention,  and  I  can  only  allow  him  to  take  your  play- 
thing into  the  second  court.  He  must  not  go  into  the 
Temple." 

"It  is  no  particular  wish  of  mine  to  go  into  a  prison," 
answered  the  commissioner,  carelessly.  "  It  is  a  good  deal 
easier  to  get  in  than  to  get  out  again.  Well,  take  hold, 
Citizen  Simon;  forward!" 

They  walked  on  to  the  second  court.  "Now,  then," 
whispered  Toulan,  "for  caution  and  though tfulness!  To- 
morrow at  ten  o'clock  I  will  be  standing  before  the  door, 
and  you  will  call  me  in  to  help  you  in  your  moving." 

"I  wish  it  were  all  over,"  groaned  Simon.  "It  seems 
to  me  as  if  my  head  were  shaking  on  my  shoulders,  and 
my  heart  beats  as  if  I  were  a  young  girl." 

"  Courage,  Simon,  only  courage !  Kemember  that  to- 
morrow you  are  to  be  a  free  and  a  rich  man.  Then,  as 
soon  as  you  give  your  basket  to  the  washerwoman  at  the 
Macon  gate,  I  will  pay  you  the  promised  twenty  thousand 
francs.  And — " 

"  Halt!"  cried  the  sentinel  at  the  entrance  to  the  Temple. 
" No  one  can  go  in  here  without  a  pass." 

"  You  do  not  want  a  pass  for  my  rocking-horse,  brother 
citizen,  do  you?"  asked  Simon,  with  a  laugh. 

"Nonsense!     I  am  speaking  about  the  commissioner." 

"  He  is  going  of  himself,  and  does  not  want  to  go  in. 
But  look  him  square  in  the  face,  for  he  will  come  to-mor- 
row morning  again.  I  have  secured  him  in  advance,  to 
help  me  in  moving  out.  Bring  a  wagon  along,  commis- 
sioner, for  the  things  will  be  too  heavy  to  carry  without 
one.  And  now  help  put  the  horse  on  my  shoulders.  So! 
Well,  then,  to-morrow  morning  at  ten,  commissioner." 

"To-morrow  morning  at  ten,"  replied  Toulau,  nodding 

to  Simon,  and  slowly  sauntering  through  the  court.     He 

stopped  at  the  outer  gate,  told  the  porter  that  he  was  going 

to  assist  Simon  in  his  moving  on  the  morrow,  and  then 

30 


460  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

asked  in  an  indifferent  tone  whether  Simon's  successor  at 
the  Temple  was  appointed. 

"Why,  would  you  like  the  place?"  asked  the  porter, 
gruffly. 

"  No,  indeed,  not  I !  I  have  no  taste  for  such  work.  It 
must  be  an  awful  air  in  the  prison." 

"It  is  that,"  replied  the  porter.  "And  so  after  Simon 
has  moved  out,  they  are  going  to  cleanse  the  place  a  little, 
and  give  it  an  airing,  and  the  successor  will  move  in  about 
noon." 

"Well,  I  don't  envy  the  man  who  moves  in,"  said 
Toulan,  with  a  laugh.  "  Good-by,  citizen,  we  shall  see  each 
other  to-morrow." 

He  went  out  into  the  street,  and  slowly  sauntered  along. 
At  the  end  of  it  he  stopped  and  gave  a  trifle  to  a  beggar 
who,  supported  by  a  crutch,  was  leaning  against  a  house. 

"Is  it  all  right  thus  far?" 

"Yes,  marquis,  thank  God,  thus  far  every  thing  has 
gone  on  well.  The  horse  is  in  the  Temple,  and  nothing 
is  discovered." 

"May  the  grace  of  God  stand  by  us  to-morrow!"  whis- 
pered the  beggar.  "  You  are  sure  that  all  the  arrangements 
are  carefully  attended  to?" 

"  Entirely  sure,  M.  de  J,arjayes.  While  you  are  leaving 
Paris  in  the  garb  of  a  washerwoman,  our  two  allies  will 
both  be  driving  out  of  two  other  gates,  with  the  boy,  in 
stylish  carriages." 

"And  it  will  be  you,  Toulan,  who  will  have  saved  the 
King  of  France,"  whispered  the  beggar.  "Oh!  be  sure 
that  all  France  will  thank  you  for  it  some  day,  and  give 
you  the  title  of  savior  of  your  country!" 

"Baron,"  said  Toulan,  shaking  his  head,  "for  me  there 
is  but  one  title  of  honor,  that  which  the  Queen  of  France 
gave  me.  I  am  called  Fidele,  and  I  want  no  other  name. 
But  this  one  I  will  maintain  so  long  as  I  live.  Good-by 
till  we  meet  to-morrow  at  the  Porte  Macon !" 

Little  Prince  Louis  Charles  received  the  hobby-horse, 
which  Simon  carried  into  the  chamber,  with  a  little  more 
interest  than  in  the  case  of  the  other  playthings.  He  even 
raised  himself  up  a  little  on  his  mattress,  and  directed  a 
long,  searching  gaze  at  the  tall,  handsome  wooden  creature. 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  461 

"Well,"  asked  the  official,  who  had  gone  with  Simon 
into  the  dungeon,  and  had  watched  the  effect  of  the  toy, 
"  well,  how  does  your  horse  please  you,  little  Capet?" 

The  boy  nodded  slowly,  but  made  no  reply;  he  only 
reached  out  his  long,  thin,  right  hand,  and  made  a  motion 
as  if  he  wanted  to  rise. 

"To-morrow,  little  Capet,"  cried  Jeanne  Marie,  holding 
him  back.  "  To-day  you  must  keep  entirely  still,  so  the 
doctor  said,  and  I  will  cut  your  hair  off  directly,  as  the 
doctor  ordered.  But  I  should  like  to  have  you  here,  citi- 
zen, and  oversee  the  operation.  The  boy  will  look  much 
changed,  when  his  long,  yellow  hair  is  cut  off,  and  after- 
ward it  might  be  supposed — " 

"Yes,  certainly,"  interrupted  Simon,  with  a  laugh, 
"  afterward  it  might  be  supposed  that  it  is  not  the  stupid 
youngster  who  has  troubled  us  so  long,  that  out  of  pure 
tenderness  and  love  we  had  taken  him  along  with  us." 

"  No  one  would  consider  the  republican  Simon  capable 
of  such  a  thing,"  replied  the  official,  "  and  besides,  the  boy 
will  stay  here,  and  no  substitute  for  him  can  fall  out  of 
the  clouds.  Be  free  from  care,  Simon.  I  myself  shall  rec- 
ognize the  boy  to-morrow,  and  if  he  should  look  changed 
in  appearance,  I  shall  know  how  it  comes." 

"Yes,  he  will  know  how  it  cpmes,"  said  Simon,  with  a 
grin,  as  he  watched  the  retreating  form  of  the  official,  now 
leaving  the  prison.  i 

"  Lock  the  door,  Simon,"  whispered  Jeanne  Marie.  "  We 
must  let  the  boy  out  of  this  if  he  is  not  to  be  stifled!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Simon,  motioning  his  wife  to  retreat  from 
the  hobby-horse  which  she  was  approaching.  "  He  will  not 
be  stifled,  for  beneath  the  saddle-cloth  there  are  nothing 
but  air-holes,  and  he  can  endure  it  a  good  while.  We 
must  above  all  things  be  cautious  and  prepared  for  every 
thing.  It  would  be  a  fine  thing,  would  it  not,  if  the  offi- 
cials who  are  on  guard  in  the  Temple  should  conceive  the 
idea  of  making  the  rounds  a  second  time  for  the  purpose  of 
inspection.  He  cannot  be  carried  out  before  it  strikes  ten 
from  Notre  Dame.  We  will,  however,  give  him  a  little 
more  air." 

He  removed  the  saddle  with  care,  which  was  let  into  the 
back  of  the  wooden  horse,  and  listened  at  the  opening. 


462  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"He  breathes  very  peacefully  and  evenly,"  he  then  said, 
softly.  "  He  seems  to  be  asleep.  Jeanne  Marie,  hold  the 
saddle  in  your  hand,  and  at  the  least  approach  fit  it  again 
in  its  place.  I  will  now  take  hold  and  pack  our  things." 

When  the  night  came,  and  the  last  rounds  had  been 
made  past  the  closed  doors  of  Simon's  rooms,  and  the  offi- 
cials had  withdrawn  into  the  great  hall,  where  they  stayed 
during  the  night-watch,  there  was  an  unusual  stir  within 
Simon's  apartments.  Jeanne  Marie,  who  had  thrown  her- 
self in  her  clothes  upon  the  bed,  slipped  out  from  beneath 
the  coverlet.  Simon,  who  was  standing  near  the  door 
listening,  advanced  to  the  little  prince,  and  bade  him  in  a 
whisper  to  get  up. 

The  child,  which  now  seemed  to  have  recovered  from  its 
indifference  and  stupidity,  rose  at  once,  and  at  Simon's 
further  command  made  an  effort  to  remove  his  clothes,  and 
to  put  on  in  their  place  the  coarse  woollen  suit  and  the  linen 
trowsers  which  Simon  drew  out  of  his  bed  and  handed  to 
him. 

The  toilet  was  soon  completed,  and  the  little  prince 
looked  with  a  timid,  inquiring  glance  at  Simon,  who  was 
regarding  him  with  a  searching  eye. 

"And  the  stockings,  master?"  he  asked.  "Do  not  I 
have  any  stockings?"  , 

"No,"  growled  Simon- — "no,  the  son  of  a  washerwoman 
wants  no  stockings.  There  are  some  wooden  shoes  which 
will  be  laid  for  you  in  the  basket,  and  you  put  them  on 
afterward,  if  we  are  fortunate  in  getting  away.  But  you 
must  cut  his  hair,  Jeanne  Marie.  With  long  hair  he  will 
not  look  like  a  boy  from  the  people." 

Jeanne  Marie  shuddered.  "I  cannot,"  she  whispered; 
"  it  would  seem  tome  as  if  I  were  cutting  off  his  head,  and 
the  woman  in  white  would  stand  behind,  and  pierce  me 
through  with  her  great  eyes." 

"  Come,  come,  that  old  story  again !"  growled  Simon. 
"  Give  me  the  scissors,  then;  I  will  take  care  of  it,  for  the 
boy  must  part  with  his  hair  before  he  goes  into  the  basket. 
Come,  come,  do  not  shrink  and  curl  up  so;  I  was  not 
speaking  of  the  guillotine-basket,  but  of  your  dirty-clothes 
basket.  Come,  Capet,  I  want  to  cut  your  hair." 

He  took  the  great  shears  from  the  work-basket,  and  sat 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  463 

down  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of  the  table,  on  which  burned 
a  dim  tallow  candle,  throwing  an  uncertain  light  through 
the  apartment.  "  Come,  Capet!" 

The  boy  stole  up  with  an  insecure  step,  and  shrank  to- 
gether when  Simon  seized  him  and  drew  him  between  his 
knees. 

"Do  not  hurt  him,  Simon.  Be  careful  of  him,"  whis- 
pered Jeanne  Marie,  sinking  on  the  floor  and  folding  her 
hands.  "  Remember,  husband,  that  she  is  here,  and  that 
she  is  looking  at  you,  and  that  she  bores  into  my  head  with 
her  eyes  when  you  do  any  harm  to  the  child." 

Simon  looked  around  with  a  shy  and  anxious  glance.  "  It 
is  high  time  that  we  were  away  from  here,"  he  growled — 
"  high  time,  if  I  am  not  to  be  crazy  as  well  as  you.  Stoop 
down,  Capet,  so  that  I  can  cut  your  hair  off."  The  child 
let  his  head  fall ;  but  a  faint,  carefully  suppressed  sob  came 
from  his  breast,  while  Simon's  shears  went  clashing  through 
his  locks,  severing  them  from  his  head. 

"What  are  you  crying  for,  Capet?"  asked  Simon,  zeal- 
ously going  forward  with  his  work. 

" I  am  so  sorry,  master,  to  have  my  locks  cut  off." 

"You  probably  suppose,  you  vain  monkey,  that  your 
locks  are  particularly  beautiful?" 

"Oh,  no,  master!  It  is  only,"  sighed  the  boy  with  his 
eyes  full  of  tears — "  it  is  only  because  her  hand  has  rested 
on  them,  and  because  she  kissed  them  when  I  saw  her  the 
last  time." 

"Who  is  she?  "  asked  Simon,  roughly. 

"My  mamma  queen,"  replied  Louis  with  such  a  tone  of 
tenderness  as  to  bring  tears  into  the  eyes  of  Jeanne  Marie, 
and  even  to  move  the  cobbler  himself. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  softly.  "Hush!  you  must  never  call 
your  mother  by  such  a  name.  After  to-morrow  morning 
you  are  to  be  the  son  of  a  washerwoman.  Remember  that, 
and  now  be  still !  There,  your  hair  is  done  now.  Pick 
up  the  locks  from  the  floor  and  lay  them  on  the  table, 
Jeanne  Marie.  We  must  leave  them  here,  that  the  officer 
may  find  them  in  the  morning,  and  not  wonder  if  he  does 
not  recognize  the  urchin.  Now  we  will  bring  the  wash- 
basket,  and  see  whether  young  Capet  will  go  into  it." 

He  brought  out  of  the  chamber  a  high,  covered  basket, 


464  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

grasped  the  boy,  thrust  him  in,  and  ordered  him  to  lie 
down  on  the  bottom  of  the  basket. 

"He  exactly  fits!"  said  Simon  to  his  wife.  "  We  will 
now  throw  some  dirty  clothes  over  him,  and  he  can  spend 
the  night  in  the  basket.  We  must  be  ready  for  any  thing; 
for  there  are  many  distrustful  officials,  and  it  would  not  be 
the  first  time  that  they  have  made  examinations  in  the 
night.  Little  Capet  must  remain  in  the  basket,  and  now 
we  will  take  his  substitute  out  of  the  horse." 

He  went  to  the  hobby-horse,  took  out  some  screws  which 
ran  along  the  edges  of  the  upholstery,  and  then  carefully 
removed  the  upper  part  of  the  animal  from  the  lower.  In 
the  hollow  thus  brought  to  light,  lay  a  pale,  sick  boy,  with 
closed  eyes — the  nephew  of  the  Marquis  de  Jarjayes,  the 
last  descendant  of  the  Baroness  de  Tardif,  now,  as  all  his 
ancestors  had  done,  to  give  his  life  for  his  king. 

Jeanne  Marie  rose  from  her  knees,  took  a  light  from  the 
table,  and  approached  the  child,  which  was  lying  in  its 
confined  space  as  in  a  coffin. 

The  little  prince  had  raised  himself  up  in  his  basket, 
and  his  pale  face  was  visible  as  he  looked,  out  of  his  large 
blue  eyes,  with  curiosity  and  amazement  at  the  sick  child. 

"He  does  not  look  like  the  king's  son,"  whispered 
Jeanne  Marie,  after  a  long,  searching  study  of  the  pale, 
bloated  face  of  the  idiot. 

"  We  will  put  his  clothes  on  at  once,  then  he  will  look 
all  right,  for  clothes  make  the  man.  Stand  up,  little  one, 
you  need  to  get  up.  You  are  not  to  stay  any  longer  in 
your  curious  prison." 

"  He  does  not  understand  you, "  said  Jeanne  Marie.  "  Do 
not  you  remember  that  Ton  Ian  told  us  that  the  boy  is  per- 
fectly deaf  and  dumb?" 

"  True ;  I  had  forgotten  it,  and  yet  it  is  fortunate  for 
us,  for  a  deaf  and  dumb  person  cannot  disclose  any  danger- 
ous secrets.  Come,  Jeanne  Marie,  give  me  the  clothes;  we 
will  dress  up  the  little  mute  like  a  prince." 

They  put  upon  him  the  velvet  jacket,  the  short  trowsers 
of  black  cloth,  the  shoes  and  stockings  of  the  prince,  who 
still  was  looking  out  of  his  basket  at  the  pale,  softly-moaning 
child,  which  was  now  placed  by  Simon  and  his  wife  on  the 
mattress. 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  465 

"There,"  said  Simon,  throwing  the  coverlet  over  the 
boy,  "  there,  the  royal  prince  is  ready,  and  we  can  say,  as 
they  used  to  do  at  St.  Denis,  when  they  brought  a  new 
occupant  into  the  royal  vault,  ' Le  roi  est  mort,  vive  le  roil"1 
Lie  quietly  in  your  basket,  Capet,  for  you  see  you  are  de- 
posed, and  your  successor  has  your  throne." 

"  Master,"  whispered  Louis,  anxiously  and  timidly,  "  mas- 
ter, may  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

"Well,  yes,  you  may,  you  little  nameless  toad.  What 
is  it?" 

"  Master,  will  the  sick  child  have  to  die,  if  I  am  saved?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  youngster?     What  are  you  at?" 

"  I  only  mean,  master — I  only  wanted  to  say  that  if  the 
poor  boy  must  die,  if  he  takes  my  place,  why — I  should 
rather  stay  here.  For — " 

"  Well,  go  on,  stupid!  what  do  you  mean  by  your 'for?' 
You  would  rather  remain  here?" 

"  Yes,  master,  if  another  is  to  die  and  be  beaten  and 
tortured,  for  blows  hurt  so  much,  and  I  should  not  like  to 
have  another  boy  receive  them  instead  of  me.  That  would 
be  wicked  in  me,  and — " 

K  "  And  you  are  a  stupid  fellow,  and  do  not  know  any 
thing  you  are  talking  about,"  said  Simon,  shaking  his  fist 
at  him.  "  Just  put  on  airs,  and  speak  another  such  a  fool- 
ish word,  and  I  will  not  only  beat  you  to  death,  but  I  will 
beat  this  miserable,  whining  youngster  to  death  too,  and 
then  you  will  certainly  be  to  blame  for  it.  Down  with  you 
into  the  basket,  and  if  you  venture  to  put  your  head  up 
again,  and  if  to-morrow  you  are  not  obedient  and  do  just 
what  we  bid  you,  I  will  beat  you  and  him,  both  of  you,  to 
pieces,  and  pack  you  into  the  clothes-basket,  and  carry  you 
away.  Down  into  the  basket!" 

The  boy  sank  down  out  of  sight;  and  when,  after  a  little 
while,  Jeanne  Marie  cautiously  looked  to  see  whether  he 
had  fallen  asleep,  she  saw  that  Louis  Charles  was  kneeling 
on  the  bottom  of  the  basket,  and  raising  his  folded  hands 
up  to  heaven. 

"Simon,"  she  whispered — "Simon,  do  not  laugh  at  me 
and  scold  me.  You  say,  I  know,  that  there  is  no  God,  and 
the  republic  has  done  away  with  Deity,  and  the  Church,  and 
the  priests.  But  let  me  once  kneel  down  and  pray  to  Him 


466  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

with  whom  little  Louis  Charles  is  talking  now,  and  to 
whom  the  Austrian  spoke  on  the  scaffold." 

Without  waiting  for  Simon's  answer,  Jeanne  Marie  sank 
upon  her  knees.  Folding  her  hands,  she  leaned  her  fore- 
head on  the  rim  of  the  basket,  and  softly  whispered,  "  Louis 
Charles,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"  Yes,"  lisped  the  child,  "  I  hear  you." 

"  I  ask  your  forgiveness,"  whispered  Jeanne  Marie.  "  I 
have  sinned  dreadfully  against  you,  but  remorse  has  taken 
hold  of  my  heart,  and  tears  it  in  pieces  and  gives  me  no 
rest  day  or  night.  Oh,  forgive  me,  son  of  the  queen,  and 
when  you  pray,  implore  your  mother  to  forgive  me  the  evil 
that  I  have  done  her." 

"  I  will  pray  to  my  dear  mamma  queen  for  you,  and  I 
know  she  will  forgive  you,  for  she  was  so  very  good,  and 
she  always  said  to  me  that  we  must  forgive  our  enemies; 
and  I  had  to  swear  to  my  dear  papa  that  I  would  forget 
and  forgive  all  the  wrong  that  men  should  do  to  me.  And 
so  I  forgive  you,  and  I  will  forget  all  the  bad  things  that 
Master  Simon  has  done  to  me,  for  my  papa  and  my  mamma 
wished  me  to." 

Jeanne  Marie  let  her  head  sink  lower,  and  pressed  her 
hands  firmly  against  her  lips  to  repress  the  outcries  which 
her  remorseful  conscience  prompted.  Simon  seemed  to 
understand  nothing  of  this  soft  whispering;  he  was  busily 
engaged  in  packing  up  his  things,  and  no  one  saw  him 
hastily  draw  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  he  wanted  to  wipe 
away  the  dust  which  suddenly  prevented  his  seeing. 

Gradually  it  grew  still  in  the  gloomy  room.  The  whis- 
pering in  the  basket  ceased.  Jeanne  Marie  had  retired  to 
her  bed,  and  had  wept  herself  to  sleep.  Upon  the  mattress 
lay  the  sick,  sobbing  child,  the  substitute  of  King  Louis 
XVII.,  who  was  in  the  basket. 

Simon  was  the  only  one  who  was  awake,  and  there  must 
have  been  dismal  thoughts  that  busied  him.  He  sat  upon 
the  stool  near  the  candle,  which  was  nearly  burned  out,  his 
forehead  was  corrugated  and  clouded,  his  lips  were  closely 
pressed  together,  and  the  little,  flashing  eyes  looked  out 
into  the  empty  space  full  of  anger  and  threatenings. 

"It  must  be,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "it  must  be.  I 
should  otherwise  not  have  a  moment's  peace,  and  always 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE.  467 

feel  the  knife  at  my  throat.  One  of  us  must  be  away  from 
here,  in  order  that  he  may  disclose  the  other.  I  will  not 
be  that  one,  it  must  be  Toulan." 

He  stood  up  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  made  a  fixed, 
unchangeable  resolve,  and  stretched  his  bony,  crooked 
limbs.  Then  he  threw  one  last  look  at  the  stranger-child, 
that  lay  moaning  and  groaning  on  his  mattress,  fell  upon 
his  bed,  and  soon  his  long-drawn,  sonorous  breathing  dis- 
closed the  fact  that  Master  Simon  was  asleep. 

On  the  next  morning  there  reigned  in  the  lower  stories 
of  the  Temple  a  busy,  stirring  life.  Master  Simon  was 
preparing  to  move,  and  all  his  household  goods  were  set 
out  in  the  court,  in  order  to  be  transferred  to  the  wagon 
that  Commissioner  Toulan  had  ordered.  Close  to  the 
wagon  stood  one  of  the  officials  of  the  Public  Safety,  and 
examined  every  article  of  furniture  that  was  put  into  it, 
opening  even  the  bandboxes  and  pillows  to  look  into  them. 
Not,  as  he  said,  the  Welfare  Committee  doubted  the  hon- 
esty of  the  faithful  and  zealous  servant  of  the  republic, 
but  only  to  satisfy  the  forms,  and  to  comply  with  the  laws, 
which  demanded  that  the  authorities  should  have  a  watch- 
ful eye  on  every  thing  that  was  at  all  connected  with  the 
family  of  the  tyrants. 

"  And  you  will  do  me  a  great  pleasure  if  you  will  exam- 
ine every  thing  with  the  utmost  care.  In  the  republic  we 
are  all  alike,  and  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  be  served 
to-day  as  another  would  be  on  the  morrow.  You  know, 
probably,  that  I  have  been  appointed  collector  at  Porte 
Macon,  and  after  to-morrow  I  shall  have  to  inspect  the 
goods  of  other  people.  It  is  all  fair  that  I  should  have  my 
turn  to-day.  Besides,  you  will  not  have  much  more  to 
examine,  we  are  almost  through ;  I  believe  there  is  only  a 
basket  with  the  soiled  clothes  yet  to  come.  That  is  the 
sacred  possession  of  my  wife,  and  she  was  going  to  bring  it 
out  herself,  with  the  commissioner's  help.  Yes,  there  they 
come." 

At  that  moment,  Jeanne  Marie  appeared  in  the  court, 
followed  by  Toulan.  They  brought  along,  by  two  ropes 
which  served  as  handles,  a  large  and  longish  basket,  whose 
half-opened  cover  brought  to  view  all  kinds  of  women's 
clothes. 


468  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"Room  there,"  cried  Simon,  with  a  laugh,  "room  for 
the  Citoyenne  Simon  and  her  costly  dowry!" 

"Come,  no  joking,  Simon,"  said  his  wife,  threatening 
him  with  her  fist  and  laughing.  "  If  my  dowry  is  not 
costly  enough,  I  will  only  ask  you  to  provide  me  with  bet- 
ter things." 

"  Your  dowry  is  magnificent,"  said  Simon,  "  and  there  is 
not  a  single  article  lacking  to  make  it  complete.  Come,  I 
will  help  the  commissioner  put  the  basket  in  the  wagon, 
for  it  is  too  heavy  for  you,  my  fairest  one!" 

He  took  hold  of  the  basket  with  his  strong  arm,  and 
helped  the  commissioner  swing  it  into  the  wagon. 

"  But  let  me  look  first  into  the  basket,  as  my  duty  de- 
mands," said  the  official.  "You  are  too  quick!  You 
know,  citizen,  that  I  must  examine  all  your  goods.  The 
law  compels  me  to." 

"  Then  I  beg  you  to  climb  up  into  the  wagon  and  open 
the  basket,"  said  Simon,  calmly.  "You  cannot  want  us 
to  take  the  heavy  thing  down  again  for  you  to  examine  it." 

"  I  do  not  ask  that,  citizen,  but  I  must  examine  the 
basket." 

The  official  sprang  into  the  wagon,  but  Jeanne  Marie 
was  quicker  than  he,  and  stood  close  by  the  basket,  whose 
cover  was  partly  opened. 

"Look  in,  citizen,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "Convince 
yourself  that  only  the  clothing  of  a  woman  is  in  it,  and 
then  tell  the  republic  that  you  found  it  necessary  to  exam- 
ine the  basket  of  the  famous  knitter  of  the  guillotine,  as  if 
Jeanne  Marie  was  a  disguised  duchess,  who  wanted  to  fly 
from  the  hand  of  justice." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  official,  "  every  one  knows 
and  honors  the  knitter  of  the  guillotine,  but — " 

"  But  you  are  curious,  and  want  to  see  some  of  my 
clothes.  Well,  look  at  them!"  She  raised  those  which  lay 
at  the  top,  and  held  them  up  to  the  official  with  a  laugh. 

"And  down  below?  What  is  farther  down  in  the 
basket?" 

"Farther  down,"  replied  Jeanne  Marie,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  the  greatest  indignation  and  the  most  outraged 
modesty,  "  farther  down  are  my  dirty  clothes,  and  I  hope 
the  republic  will  not  consider  it  necessary  to  examine  these 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  469 

too.  I  would  at  least  oppose  it,  and  call  every  female 
friend  I  have  to  my  help."  * 

"  Oh!  you  will  not  have  to  do  that,"  replied  the  official, 
with  a  friendly  nod  of  the  head.  "  It  would  be  presump- 
tuous to  go  farther  with  the  examination  of  your  goods,  and 
the  republic  regards  with  respect  the  mysteries  of  an  hon- 
orable wife." 

He  jumped  down  from  the  wagon,  while  Jeanne  Marie, 
still  wearing  an  angry  look,  laid  the  clothes  back  into  the 
basket,  and  shut  the  cover  down. 

"  Can  we  go  now?"  she  asked,  taking  her  seat  on  a  low 
stool  which  happened  to  be  near  the  great  basket. 

"  Yes,  if  the  official  has  nothing  against  it,  we  can  go," 
answered  Simon.  "  Our  goods  are  all  loaded." 

"  Then  go  on,  I  have  nothing  against  it,  and  I  wish  you 
and  your  wife  much  happiness  and  joy  in  your  new  career." 

The  official  waved  them  a  last  gracious  adieu  with  the 
hand,  and  the  wagon  started.  Alongside  of  the  great, 
hard-mouthed  and  long-haired  horse  that  drew  the  cart, 
walked  the  commissioner,  in  order,  once  in  a  while,  when 
they  had  to  turn  a  corner,  to  seize  the  bridle  and  give  it  a 
powerful  jerk.  At  the  side  of  the  wagon  strode  Simon, 
keeping  a  watchful  eye  upon  his  possessions,  and  carefully 
setting  every  thing  aright  which  was  in  danger  of  being 
shaken  off  upon  the  pavement.  Above  in  the  carriage 
near  the  great  basket  sat  Jeanne  Marie,  the  former  knitter 
of  the  guillotine.  Her  naked  brown  arm  rested  upon  the 
basket,  on  whose  bottom,  covered  with  dirty  linen  and 
Mistress  Simon's  clothes,  was  the  son  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
King  Louis  XVII.,  making  his  entrance  into  the  world 
which  should  have  for  him  only  sufferings  and  illusions, 
shattered  hopes  and  dethroned  ideals. 

This  happened  on  the  19th  of  January,  1794,  and  on  the 
very  day  in  which  the  unhappy  King  Louis  XVII.  was 
leaving  the  Temple,  his  sister  Theresa,  who  was  still  living 
with  her  Aunt  Elizabeth  in  the  upper  rooms,  wrote  in  her 

*  Madame  Simon's  own  words,  reported  from  her  own  account,  which  she 
gave  in  the  year  1819  to  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  who  cared  for  her  in  her  last 
sickness.  The  sisterhood  of  the  female  hospital  in  the  rue  Sevres  publicly  re- 
peated, in  the  year  1851,  this  statement  of  Jeanne  Marie  Simon,  who  died  there 
in  1819.  It  was  in  the  civil  process  brought  against  the  Duke  de  Normandy, 
who  was  accused  of  giving  himself  out  falsely  as  King  Louis  XVII.,  and  who 
could  not  be  proved  not  to  be  he. 


470  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER  SON. 

diary  (known  subsequently  by  the  title  "  Kecit  des  evene- 
ments  arrives  au  Temple,  par  Madame  Eoyale")  the  follow- 
ing words:  "  On  the  19th  of  January  my  aunt  and  I  heard 
beneath  us,  in  the  room  of  my  brother,  a  great  noise  which 
made  us  suspect  that  my  brother  was  leaving  the  Temple. 
We  were  convinced  of  it  when,  looking  through  the  key- 
hole of  the  door,  we  saw  goods  carried  away.  On  the  follow- 
ing day  we  heard  the  door  of  the  room,  in  which  my  brother 
had  been,  opened,  and  recognized  the  steps  of  men  walking 
around,  which  confirmed  us  in  the  belief  that  he  had  been 
carried  away." 

The  pitiful  wagon,  which  gave  its  hospitality  to  the  knit- 
ter of  the  revolution,  as  well  as  to  a  king,  drove  slowly  and 
carefully  through  the  streets,  unnoticed  by  the  people  who 
hastily  passed  by.  Now  and  then  they  encountered  a 
commissioner  who  came  up  to  Toulan,  greeted  him  as  an 
acquaintance,  and  asked  after  his  welfare.  Toulan  nodded 
to  them  confidentially  and  answered  them  loudly  that  he 
was  very  well,  and  that  he  was  helping  Simon  move  out  of 
the  Temple  and  going  with  him  to  Porte  Macon. 

The  commissioners  then  wished  him  a  pleasant  journey, 
and  went  their  way;  but  the  farther  they  were  from  the 
wagon,  the  quicker  were  their  steps,  and  here  and  there 
they  met  other  commissioners,  to  whom  they  repeated  Tou- 
lan's  words,  and  who  then  went  from  there  and  again  told 
them  over  to  their  friends  in  the  streets,  in  quiet,  hidden 
chambers,  and  in  brilliant  palaces.  In  one  such  palace  the 
tidings  caused  a  singular  commotion.  Count  Frotte,  who 
lived  there,  and  whom  the  public  permitted  to  live  in  Paris, 
ordered  his  travelling  carriage  to  be  brought  out  at  once. 
The  postilion,  with  four  swift  horses,  had  already  stood  in 
the  court  below  half  an  hour,  waiting  for  this  order.  The 
horses  were  quickly  harnessed  to  the  carriage,  which  was 
well  filled  with  trunks;  and  scarcely  had  it  reached  the 
front  door,  when  the  count  hurried  down  the  grand  stair- 
case, thickly  wrapped  in  his  riding-furs.  At  his  right  sat 
a  little  boy  of  scarcely  ten  years,  a  velvet  cap,  trimmed 
with  fur,  upon  his  short,  fair  hair;  the  slender,  graceful 
form  concealed  with  a  long  velvet  cloak,  that  fell  down  as 
far  as  the  shoes  with  golden,  jewelled  buckles. 

Count  Frotte  seemed  to  bestow  special  care  and  attention 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  471 

upon  this  boy,  for  he  not  only  had  him  sit  on  his  right, 
but  remained  standing  near  the  door,  to  give  precedence 
to  the  boy,  and  then  hastened  to  follow  him.  He  pressed 
the  servants  back  who  stood  near  the  open  door,  bowed  re- 
spectfully, and  gave  his  hand  to  the  lad  to  assist  him  in 
ascending.  The  youth  received  these  tokens  of  respect 
quietly,  and  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
Count  Frotte  should  carefully  put  furs  around  his  feet  and 
body,  in  order  to  protect  him  from  every  draft.  As  soon 
as  this  was  done,  the  count  entered  the  carriage,  and  took 
his  place  at  the  left  of  the  boy.  The  servant  closed  the 
carriage-door  with  a  loud  slam,  and  the  steward  advanced 
with  respectful  mien,  and  asked  whither  the  count  would 
order  to  go. 

"The  road  to  Puy,"  said  the  count,  with  a  loud  voice, 
and  the  steward  repeated  to  the  postilion  just  as  loudly  and 
clearly,  "The  road  to  Puy." 

The  carriage  drove  thunderingly  out  of  the  court-door, 
and  the  servant  looked  after  it  till  it  disappeared,  and  then 
followed  the  house-steward,  who  motioned  him  to  come 
into  the  cabinet. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  citizen,"  said  the  steward, 
with  a  weighty  air,  "  but  first  I  must  beg  you  to  make  me 
a  solemn  promise  that  you  will  continue  a  faithful  and 
obedient  servant  of  the  count,  and  prove  in  no  way  false  to 
your  oath  and  your  duty." 

The  servant  pledged  himself  solemnly,  and  the  steward 
continued :  "  The  count  has  undertaken  a  journey  which  is 
not  to  be  spoken  of,  and  is  to  remain,  if  possible,  a  secret. 
1  demand  of  you,  therefore,  that  if  any  one  asks  where  the 
count  has  gone,  you  answer  that  you  do  not  know.  But 
above  all  things,  you  are  not  to  say  that  the  count  is  not 
travelling  alone,  but  in  company  with  the  young — gentle- 
man, whose  name  and  rank  I  know  just  as  little  about  as 
you.  Will  you  promise  to  faithfully  heed  my  words?" 

The  servant  asserted  it  with  solemn  oaths  and  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  reverence.  The  steward  beckoned  to  him  to 
go,  and  then  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time,  and  with  a 
singular  expression  as  he  withdrew. 

"  He  is  a  spy  of  the  Safety  Committee,"  he  whispered  to 
himself.  "  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  so,  and  he  will  cer- 


472  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

tainly  go  at  once  and  report  to  the  authorities,  and  they 
will  break  their  heads  thinking  what  the  count  has  to  do  in 
Puy,  and  who  the  boy  is  who  accompanies  my  lord.  Well, 
that  is  exactly  what  we  want :  to  put  the  bloodhounds  and 
murderers  on  a  false  scent.  That  is  just  the  object  of  the 
count,  and  for  that  purpose  M.  Morin  de  Gueriviere  has 
lent  his  only  son,  for  all  that  we  have  and  are,  our  lives, 
our  children,  and  every  thing  else,  belong  to  our  king  and 
lord.  I  hope,  therefore,  that  the  count's  plan  will  succeed, 
and  the  Safety  Committee  be  put  on  a  false  scent." 

Meanwhile  the  pitiful  carriage  containing  Simon's  goods 
had  slowly  taken  its  way  through  the  streets  and  halted  at 
its  goal,  the  custom-house  near  Porte  Macon.  Before  the 
building  stood  a  woman  in  the  neat  and  tasteful  costume 
of  the  washerwomen  from  the  village  of  Vannes,  which 
then,  as  now,  was  the  abode  of  the  washerwomen  of  Paris. 

"Well,"  cried  the  woman,  with  a  loud  laugh,  helping 
Mistress  Simon  dismount  from  the  wagon — "  well,  you  have 
come  at  last.  For  two  hours  I  have  been  waiting  for  you, 
for  you  ordered  me  to  be  here  at  eleven,  and  now  it  is  one. 
What  will  rny  husband  and  my  little  boy  say  about  my 
coming  home  so  late?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Jeanne  Marie,  with  a  kindly 
voice.  "  Our  ride  was  a  good  deal  slower  than  I  thought, 
for  the  things  were  packed  only  loosely,  and  if  we  had  rid- 
den faster  they  would  easily  have  been  injured.  But  I  will 
not  detain  you  longer,  and  you  shall  have  my  wash  at 
once.  There  are  a  great  many  clothes  this  time,  and  I 
have  therefore  thrown  them  all  at  once  into  the  basket;  so 
you  can  put  the  basket  right  upon  your  wagon  and  bring 
the  things  back  in  it.  Halloa,  Simon,  and  you,  commis- 
sioner, take  hold  and  lift  the  basket  down,  and  carry  it 
out  to  the  washerwoman's  wagon  that  is  standing  near  the 
gate." 

The  two  men  immediately  lifted  the  great  basket  out, 
and  carried  it  to  the  open  cart  which  stood  there,  in  which 
lay  arranged  in  regular  order  great  bundles  of  dirty  linen. 
Near  the  gate  stood  the  sub-collector,  whose  superior  Simon 
now  was,  and  it  therefore  did  not  occur  to  him  to  examine 
the  basket  which  his  new  chief  was  putting  in  the  wash- 
erwoman's wagon.  Some  busybodies  who  stood  around 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE.  473 

turned  their  whole  attention  to  the  wagon  which  contained 
the  furniture  and  goods  of  the  new  collector,  who  was,  of 
course,  a  very  important  person  in  this  remote  quarter, 
and  Jeanne  Marie  endeavored  with  her  loud  words  and 
choleric  gesticulations  to  fasten  the  attention  of  the  idlers 
upon  herself.  Nobody  regarded  the  two  men,  who  had 
just  put  the  basket  into  the  washerwoman's  cart,  and  no 
one  heard  the  words  that  they  softly  spoke  together. 

The  washerwoman  had  raised  the  cover,  and  was  rolling 
around  the  clothes,  as  if  she  wanted  to  examine  the  contents 
of  the  basket. 

"Sire,"  she  whispered,  softly,  as  she  did  so — "sire,  do 
you  hear  me?" 

A  weak,  faint  voice  replied,  "  I  hear  you." 

"  And  shall  you  be  able  to  bear  it,  if  you  stay  a  little 
longer  in  your  hiding-place?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  it ;  but  I  am  anxious, 
and  I  should  like  to  be  away  from  here." 

The  washerwoman  closed  the  cover  of  the  basket,  and 
sprang  down  from  the  wagon.  "  Every  thing  is  in  order," 
she  said,  "  and  it  is  high  time  that  I  should  be  off.  I  have 
a  long  way  to  go,  and  my  husband  and  child  are  expecting 
me." 

"Then  go,  with  God's  blessing,"  said  the  commissioner, 
shaking  hands  with  the  washerwoman  as  if  she  were  an  old 
acquaintance.  "  Go,  with  God's  blessing,  and  may  He 
protect  you  from  all  calamity,  and  bless  you  with  happi- 
ness and  joy!" 

He  spoke  loudly,  as  if  this  was  intended  for  the  ear  of 
some  person  besides  the  washerwoman.  And  another  had 
heard  the  words  of  Toulan,  and  a  soft  and  tremulous  voice 
called:  "Farewell,  Fidele;  I  thank  you,  dear  Toulan." 

The  wagon  was  at  once  in  motion,  and  drove  quickly 
down  the  street  through  the  rows  of  small  houses  in  the 
suburbs.  The  two  men  stood  and  looked  after  it  till  the 
washerwoman's  carriage  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Toulan  raised  his  eyes  slowly  to  heaven,  and  a  pious  ex- 
pression illumined  his  good,  energetic  countenance. 

"  Thou  lookest  down  upon  me,  my  queen  and  mistress," 
he  said,  softly  and  inaudibly.  "  I  feel  the  glance  of  thy 
heavenly  eyes,  and  it  rests  like  a  hallowed  blessing  upon 


474  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

my  thankful  heart.  I  know,  my  queen,  that  thou  art  sat- 
isfied with  me  this  hour,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  thy  loved 
voice  were  whispering  above  me  in  the  air  the  word  Fidele. 
Give  me  now  thy  blessing,  that  I  may  end  my  work,  and 
rescue  the  daughter  and  the  sister  as  I  have  rescued  the 
son.  My  life  is  devoted  to  thy  service,  and  I  shall  save  all 
thy  dear  ones  or  die!" 

"Well,  Toulan,"  said  Simon,  softly,  "I  have  kept  my 
word,  and  little  Capet  is  released.  Are  you  going  to  keep 
yours?" 

"Certainly  I  shall,"  said  Toulan,  whose  glance  slowly 
fell  from  heaven,  and  whose  face  still  glowed  like  one  in  a 
trance.  "  Yes,  Simon,  I  shall  keep  my  word  to  you  as  you 
have  yours  to  me.  Come  into  your  house,  that  I  may  pay 
you." 

He  withdrew  quickly  from  the  gate  and  entered  the 
house  which  thereafter  was  to  be  the  house  of  the  collector 
Simon.  All  was  going  on  busily  there,  for  Jeanne  Marie 
had  impressed  into  her  service  not  only  the  sub-collector 
but  some  of  the  curious  spectators,  and  she  scolded  her 
husband,  who  was  just  coming  in  with  Toulan,  for  talk- 
ing too  long  with  the  washerwoman  instead  of  helping 
her. 

"  Do  you  two  take  the  heavy  mattresses  and  carry  them 
into  the  next  room." 

The  two  men  quickly  obeyed,  and  bore  the  mattresses 
into  the  chamber.  Then  they  locked  themselves  in. 
Toulan  took  several  rolls  from  the  great  waistcoat  which 
he  wore  under  his  blue  blouse,  broke  them  asunder,  and 
let  the  gold-pieces  fall  out  upon  the  mattress. 

"Count  them,  Simon,"  he  said,  "to  see  that  there  are 
exactly  two  hundred  and  fifty  double  gold-pieces,  all  bear- 
ing the  exalted  symbols  of  'the  one,  great,  and  indivisible 
republic. '  May  they  bring  you  joy,  and  be  a  reward  for 
the  great  good  fortune  which  you  have  brought  to  me,  and 
to  all  who  love  the  king  and  his  house." 

"But  will  no  one  reveal  me?"  asked  Simon,  anxiously, 
while  busily  engaged  in  collecting  the  gold-pieces,  and 
hiding  them  between  the  mattresses.  "  Say,  Toulan,  will 
no  one  divulge  and  report  me  to  the  authorities?" 

"  Be  quiet,  Simon,  and  fear  nothing.     To  betray  you, 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  475 

would  be  at  the  same  time  to  betray  the  great  cause  which 
we  serve,  and  to  surrender  the  young  king  to  the  persecu- 
tion of  his  enemies.  But  no  one  knows,  excepting  me, 
that  of  your  own  free  will  you  have  helped  save  the  king. 
With  express  reference  to  your  safety,  I  have  made  all  the 
other  allies  believe  that  I  have  deceived  you,  and  that  you 
know  nothing  of  the  concealment  of  the  child.  So  be  en- 
tirely without  concern.  Only  Toulan  knows  your  secret, 
and  Toulan  is  silent  as  the  grave.  But  let  us  go  out  now 
and  help  your  wife  bring  the  things  into  the  house,  and 
afterward  you  can  let  me  go  without  any  further  leave- 
taking.  Farewell,  citizen ;  may  you  be  entirely  successful 
in  your  new  field  of  labor." 

He  nodded  with  a  friendly  air  to  Simon,  and  as  Jeanne 
Marie  just  then  called  the  commissioner  with  a  loud  voice, 
Toulan  hastily  opened  the  door  and  hurried  to  her. 

Simon  followed  him  with  a  long,  dark  look.  Then  he 
slowly  shook  his  head,  and  his  eye  kindled. 

"It  must  be,"  he  said  to  himself,  softly.  "I  should 
otherwise  have  no  rest  day  or  night,  and  it  would  be  worse 
than  in  the  Temple.  He  said  so  himself:  only  Toulan 
knows  my  secret.  So  if  Toulan  dies,  my  secret  dies  with 
Toulan,  and  is  buried  with  him,  and  I  can  then  enjoy  my 
life,  and  shall  not  need  to  live  in  anxiety,  and  in  perpetual 
fear  of  being  betrayed.  But,"  he  continued,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  what  is  done,  must  be  done  quickly,  otherwise  I 
may  fall  into  the  very  pit  I  have  digged  for  Toulan !  If 
the  little  Capet  is  fairly  carried  to  a  place  of  safety,  and 
escapes  out  of  the  republic,  Toulan  can  avenge  himself  by 
reporting  the  whole  story  and  bringing  me  to  misfortune. 
I  must,  therefore,  while  I  am  secure,  take  away  from  the 
fellow  the  means  of  betraying  me.  Yes,  yes,  it  must  be  so; 
Toulan  must  die,  that  Simon  may  live.  Look  out  for  your 
own  self  first,  and  then  your  neighbors." 

With  a  decided  step,  Simon  left  the  room  and  entered  the 
chamber,  where  Toulan  was  busy  with  Jeanne  Marie  in  ar- 
ranging the  furniture. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  here  still,"  said  Simon,  nodding 
to  him ;  "  for  I  had  entirely  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  a  present  for  you,  which  will  certainly  please  you,  and 
which  I  have  saved  and  laid  away  expressly  for  you." 
31 


476  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"  What  is  it,  Simon?  What  kind  of  a  present  have  you 
for  me?" 

"  A  very  precious  one,  at  least  such  as  you  and  your  like 
will  consider  so,  I  think.  I  have  the  long,  yellow  locks 
which  Jeanne  Marie  cut  yesterday  from  little  Capet's  head." 

"And  will  you  give  them  to  me?"  asked  Toulan,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  that  will  I,  and  it  is  for  that  purpose  that  I  have 
brought  them  along.  They  are  lying,  with  all  the  letters, 
in  my  work-box.  But  I  cannot  get  at  them  to-day  in  all 
the  confusion,  for  they  are  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  box. 
But  come  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  receive  your 
costly  treasure.  If  you  like,  you  can  come  about  nine 
o'clock ;  and  if  I  should  happen  to  have  any  thing  to  do, 
and  not  be  here,  I  will  give  the  hair  to  Jeanne  Marie,  and 
she  will  hand  it  to  you." 

"Be  sure  that  I  shall  come,"  said  Toulan,  earnestly. 
"  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  thank  you  for  your  deli- 
cate act  of  kindness.  I  certainly  did  you  a  wrong,  for  I 
did  not  hold  you  capable  of  such  a  deed.  I  thank  you, 
Simon,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart ;  and  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, punctually  at  nine,  I  shall  be  here  to  receive  my  pre- 
cious possession.  Farewell  till  then,  Simon !  I  have  no 
quiet  now,  but  must  run  around  and  see  whether  every 
thing  seems  as  usual  in  the  Temple,  and  our  secret  undis- 
covered." He  hastened  away,  and  disappeared  around  the 
corner. 

The  whole  day  Simon  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts, 
and  engaged  in  arranging  the  furniture,  with  his  mind 
clearly  not  on  his  work.  In  the  afternoon  he  declared  that 
he  must  go  to  the  Temple  again,  because  in  the  upper  cor- 
ridor he  had  left  a  chest  with  some  utensils  in  it  which 
were  his. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  husband,  you  are  homesick  for  the 
Temple,"  said  Jeanne  Marie  jestingly,  "and  you  are  sad 
because  you  are  no  longer  in  the  old,  black  walls." 

"Yes,  I  am  homesick  for  the  Temple,"  replied  Simon, 
"  and  that  is  why  I  go  there." 

But  he  did  not  take  the  way  to  the  Temple,  but  to  the 
city  hall,  and  rang  the  bell  so  violently  that  the  porter 
dashed  to  the  door  to  open  it. 


THE   HOBBY-HORSE.  477 

"It  is  you,  citizen,"  he  ejaculated.  "I  thought  some- 
thing must  have  happened." 

"  Something  has  happened,  and  I  have  come  to  inform 
the  Committee  of  Safety,"  answered  Simon,  impetuously. 
"  Has  it  met?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  in  the  little  council-chamber.  You  will  find 
an  officer  at  the  door,  and  can  let  him  announce  you." 

Simon  strode  forward  and  found  the  sentinel  before  the 
door,  who  asked  him  what  his  business  there  was. 

"  Go  in,  citizen,  and  announce  that  Simon  is  here,  and 
brings  important  news,  of  great  peril  to  the  state." 

A  minute  later,  Simon  was  ushered  into  the  hall  in  which 
the  Safety  Committee  were  assembled.  All  those  stern- 
faced  men  of  the  republic  knew  Simon  as  a  faithful  and 
zealous  republican,  upon  whose  devotion  they  could  reckon, 
and  whose  fidelity  was  immovable. 

"I  am  come,"  said  Simon,  slowly,  "I  am  come  to  bring 
an  accusation  against  a  certain  person  as  a  conspirator 
against  the  republic,  and  a  traitor  to  our  liberties." 

"  Who  is  it,  and  what  has  he  done?"  asked  the  chairman, 
with  a  cold  smile. 

"  What  has  he  done?  He  means  to  do  something,  and  I 
mean  to  prevent  him.  He  means  to  release  the  wolf's 
whelp  from  the  Temple.  Who  knows  but  he  may  have 
done  so  already,  for  when  I  left  the  Temple  this  morning, 
my  successor  had  not  come,  and  little  Capet  was  alone. 
Who  is  it  that  is  able  to  release  the  boy  and  the  two  ladies? 
It  is  Toulan,  the  traitor,  the  royalist  Toulan!" 

"Toulan!"  replied  Petion,  with  a  shrug.  "AVe  know 
very  well  that  Toulan  is  a  traitor,  and  that  the  republic 
can  expect  only  the  worst  from  him  that  he  can  do.  He 
was  accused  once,  but  escaped  merited  punishment  by 
flight,  and  he  has  unquestionably  gone  to  Coblentz  to 
join  the  tyrant's  brothers  there.  Our  police  are  watchful, 
and  have  discovered  not  a  trace  of  him." 

"Then  allow  me  to  put  the  police  on  his  track,"  said 
Simon,  laughing.  "  Be  so  good  as  to  send  a  couple  of  offi- 
cers to  me  to-morrow,  and  I  will  deliver  Toulan,  the  trai- 
tor, into  their  hands." 


478  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

TOULAN'S   DEATH. 

THE  next  morning,  at  the  stroke  of  nine,  Toulan,  in  the 
garb  of  a  commissioner,  entered  the  house  of  the  new  col- 
lector at  the  Macon  gate.  Simon  received  him  at  the  door, 
and  conducted  him  into  the  sitting-room. 

"You  see,"  said  Toulan,  "that  I  am  punctual,  and  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  have  been  almost  too  impatient  to  wait. 
I  hope  you  do  not  regret  your  promise,  and  that  you 
mean  to  give  me  the  noble  present  that  you  promised  me." 

"Unfortunately  I  can  not,"  answered  Simon,  with  a 
shrug.  "  My  wife  insisted  on  giving  you  the  hair  with  her 
own  hands,  and  she  has  just  gone  out.  You  will  have  to 
wait  for  her,  if  you  really  are  anxious  to  possess  the  hair  of 
little  Capet." 

"Yes,  I  am  anxious  to  own  it,"  replied  Toulan.  "The 
hair  of  my  dear  young  king  will  be  my  most  cherished  pos- 
session, and — " 

"Come,  come,"  interrupted  Simon,  "there  you  exagger- 
ate. The  gold  salt's-bottle,  which  the  Austrian  gave  you, 
is  a  great  deal  dearer  to  you,  is  it  not?  You  still  have 
that,  have  you  not?" 

"Still  have  it?"  cried  Toulan.  "I  would  sooner  part 
with  my  life  than  with  this  remembrancer  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette!" 

"  Well,  then,  see  which  you  would  rather  keep,  your  life, 
or  the  bottle  the  Austrian  gave  you,"  said  Simon,  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  sprang  toward  the  door  and  opened  it  Two 
officials  of  the  Safety  Committee,  followed  by  armed  men, 
entered. 

"Have  you  heard  every  thing?"  asked  Simon,  trium- 
phantly. 

"  Yes,  we  have  heard  every  thing,  and  we  arrest  you, 
Toulan,  as  a  traitor.  Take  him  to  the  Conciergerie.  The 
authorities  will  decide  what  shall  be  done  with  him  further." 

"Well,"  said  Toulan,  calmly,  "the  authorities  will,  per- 
haps, do  me  the  honor  of  letting  me  go  the  same  way  that 
my  king  and  my  queen  have  taken,  and  I  shall  follow  the 


TOULAN'S   DEATH.  479 

example  of  the  noble  sufferers,  and  die  for  the  hallowed 
cause  of  royalty.  Let  us  go,  that  I  may  not  longer  breathe 
the  air  which  the  blasphemer  and  traitor  Simon  has 
poisoned.  Woe  upon  you,  Simon!  In  your  dying  hour 
think  of  me,  and  of  what  I  say  to  you  now :  You  are  send- 
ing me  to  death,  that  you  may  live  in  peace.  But  you  will 
find  no  peace  on  earth,  and  if  no  man  accuses  you,  your 
conscience  will.  On  your  dying  bed  you  will  see  me  before 
you,  and  on  the  day  of  judgment  you  will  hear  my  voice, 
accusing  you  before  the  throne  of  God  as  a  betrayer  and 
murderer.  May  my  blood  come  on  your  head,  Simon!" 

Simon  lived  to  enjoy  his  freedom  and  his  money  only  a 
short  time.  At  the  expiration  of  a  year  he  fell  into  lu- 
nacy, which  soon  made  him  attempt  his  own  life.  He  died 
in  the  Asylum  of  Bicetre.  His  wife  lived  till  1821,  in  a 
hospital  at  Paris,  and  in  her  dying  hour  asserted  that  little 
Capet  was  released  in  the  way  above  related. 

On  the  next  day,  there  was  a  great  excitement  within 
the  Temple,  and  the  Safety  Committee  repaired  thither  in 
a  body.  The  lamplighter,  who  made  his  rounds  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  on  which  Simon  left  the  Temple,  had 
asserted  that  the  child  that  lay  upon  the  mattress  was  not 
the  little  Capet.  "He  must  know  this,"  he  said,  "for  he 
had  seen  the  child  daily  when  he  lighted  the  lamp  in  the 
boy's  room." 

The  new  keeper,  Augustus  Lasne,  was  very  much  ex- 
cited at  the  communication  of  the  lamplighter,  and  at 
dawn  of  the  next  day  repaired  to  the  city  hall  to  report 
the  statement.  The  Safety  Committee  resolved  on  an  im- 
mediate investigation  of  the  Temple,  after  pledging  one 
another  to  the  deepest  secrecy,  and  enjoining  the  same  on 
all  the  servants  at  the  Temple. 

The  officials  found  on  the  mattress  a  moaning,  feverish 
boy,  in  the  garments  of  the  dauphin.  These  they  recog- 
nized as  the  ones  which  the  republic  had  had  made  a  month 
before  for  little  Capet,  but  no  one  could  say  whether  this 
child,  with  a  body  covered  with  sores,  a  swollen  face,  and 
sunken,  lustreless  eyes,  was  really  little  Capet  or  not;  no 
one  knew  whether  sickness  had  so  changed  his  looks  that 
this  stupid,  idiotic  boy  was  the  one  whom  they  had  all 
known  when  he  was  well,  as  they  saw  him  joyously  flitting 


480  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

around.  First  of  all  they  summoned  Doctor  Naudin,  the 
director  of  H6tel  Dieu,  to  examine  the  boy.  He  appeared 
without  delay,  and  declared  solemnly  and  decidedly  that 
this  was  the  same  boy  whom  he  had  seen  there  some  days 
before  when  he  visited  Simon's  wife,  only  the  English  sick- 
ness which  afflicted  the  child  had  distorted  his  limbs,  while 
the  cutting  off  of  his  hair  gave  him  a  changed  look,  and  it 
was  no  wonder  that  the  lamplighter  failed  to  recognize 
him. 

Simon,  who  was  summoned  to  give  evidence,  asserted  the 
same  thing,  and  affirmed  that  he  recognized  little  Capet 
in  the  sick  boy,  and  that  his  wife  had  cut  off  his  hair  only 
the  day  before.  He  brought  the  hair  as  a  complete  proof 
of  the  identity,  and  it  was  seen  to  agree  perfectly  with  that 
of  the  sick  child. 

Yet  some  of  the  officials  still  doubted,  and  their  doubts 
were  increased  when  on  the  same  day  the  servant  of  Count 
Frotte  reported  to  the  Safety  Committee  that  his  master 
had  made  a  sudden  and  secret  journey,  accompanied  by  a 
boy,  whom  the  count  had  treated  with  great  deference. 

This  boy  might  be  the  dauphin,  whom  Count  Frotte,  in 
conjunction  with  Toulan,  might  have  spirited  out  of  the 
Temple  in  some  secret  way,  and  who  must  be  followed  at 
all  hazards.  At  the  same  time  the  government  were  in- 
formed that  the  Count  de  St.  Prix  had  left  Paris  in  com- 
pany with  a  boy,  and  had  taken  the  road  to  Germany. 
Chazel,  a  member  of  the  Convention,  was  sent  secretly  to 
Puy  to  arrest  Frotte  and  the  boy  there ;  and  Chauvaine, 
another  member,  was  ordered  to  follow  the  road  to  Ger- 
many, and,  if  possible,  to  bring  back  Count  St.  Prix. 

After  a  while  both  of  them  returned,  with  nothing  ac- 
complished. Chazel  had,  indeed,  arrested  Count  Frotte 
and  the  boy  in  Puy,  but  the  count  had  given  such  undeni- 
able proofs  that  the  boy  was  not  the  dauphin — he  had 
summoned  so  many  unimpeachable  witnesses  from  Paris, 
who  recognized  the  boy  as  the  son  of  M.  de  Gueriviere, 
who  was  in  Coblentz  with  the  princes,  that  nothing  more 
remained  but  to  release  the  count  and  his  comrade. 

Chauvaine  had  not  been  able  to  arrest  the  Count  de  St. 
Prix,  and  had  only  learned  that  in  company  with  a  boy  he 
had  crossed  the  llhine  and  entered  Germany. 


TOULAN'S    DEATH.  481 

It  was  of  no  use,  therefore,  to  undertake  farther  inves- 
tigations, and  the  conclusion  must  be  firmly  held  to  that 
the  boy  in  the  Temple,  whose  sickness  increased  from  day 
to  day,  was  the  real  Capet,  the  son  of  Louis  XVI.  The 
suspicion  which  had  been  aroused  must  be  kept  a  deep 
secret,  that  the  royalists  should  not  take  renewed  courage 
from  the  possibility  that  the  King  of  France  had  been 
rescued.* 

But  the  secret  investigations,  and  the  efforts  to  draw 
something  from  Toulan,  caused  the  authorities  to  postpone 
his  fate  from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month.  On 
the  20th  of  January  he  was  arrested  and  taken  to  the  Con- 
ciergerie,  and  not  till  the  month  of  May  did  the  Conven- 
tion sentence  him  to  death.  The  charge  was  this:  that  he 
had  accepted  presents  from  the  "Widow  Capet,  in  particular 
the  gold  salt's-bottle,  and  had  made  frequent  plans  to  re- 
lease the  Capet  family  from  prison. 

On  the  same  day  Madame  Elizabeth,  the  sister  of  Louis 
XVI.,  was  sentenced  to  death,  on  the  charge  of  conducting 
a  correspondence  with  her  brothers,  through  the  agency  of 
Toulan,  having  for  its  end  the  release  of  the  royal  family. 

When  the  sentence  was  read  to  Madame  Elizabeth,  she 
smiled.  "  I  thank  my  judges  that  they  allow  me  to  go  to 
those  I  love,  and  whom  I  shall  find  in  the  presence  of 
God." 

Toulan  received  his  sentence  with  perfect  composure. 
"  The  one,  indivisible,  and  exalted  republic  is  just  as  mag- 
nanimous, is  it  not,  as  the  monarchy  was  in  old  times,  and 
it  will  grant  a  last  favor  to  one  who  has  been  condemned  to 
death,  will  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  it  will  do  that,  provided  it  is  nothing  impossible. 
It  will  gladly  grant  you  a  last  request." 

"  Well,"  said  Toulan,  "  then  I  ask  that  I  may  be  executed 
the  same  day  and  the  same  hour  as  Madame  Elizabeth,  the 
sister  of  the  king,  and  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  remain  by 
her  side  at  her  execution." 

"  Then  you  have  only  till  to-morrow  to  live,  Citizen  Tou- 

*  Later  investigations  in  the  archives  of  Paris  have  brought  to  light,  among 
other  important  papers  relative  to  the  flight  of  the  prince,  a  decree  of  the  Na- 
tional Convention,  dated  Prairial  26  (June  14),  1794,  which  gave  all  the  author- 
ities orders  "to  follow  the  young  Capet  in  all  directions."  The  boy  who  re- 
mained a  prisoner  in  the  Temple,  died  there  June  8,  1798,  a  complete  idiot. 


482  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

flan,"  replied  the  presiding  officer  of  the  court,  "for  Eliza- 
beth Capet  will  be  executed  to-morrow." 

Early  the  next  morning  three  cars  drove  away  from  the 
•Conciergerie.  In  each  of  these  cars  sat  eight  persons,  men 
&nd  women  of  the  highest  aristocracy.  They  had  put  on 
their  most  brilliant  court  attire  for  that  day,  and  arranged 
themselves  as  for  a  holiday.  Over  the  great  crinoline  the 
ladies  wore  the  richest  silks,  adorned  with  silver  and  gold 
lace ;  they  had  had  their  hair  dressed  and  decorated  with 
flowers  and  ribbons,  and  carried  elegant  fans  in  their  hands. 
The  gentlemen  wore  velvet  coats,  brilliant  with  gold  and 
silver,  while  cuffs  of  the  finest  lace  encompassed  their  white 
hands.  Their  heads  were  uncovered,  and  they  carried  the 
little  three-cornered  hat  under  the  arm,  as  they  had  done 
at  court  in  presence  of  the  royal  family. 

All  the  aristocrats  imprisoned  in  cells  at  the  Conciergerie 
had  begged  for  the  high  honor  of  being  executed  on  that 
day,  and  every  one  whose  request  had  been  granted,  had 
expressed  his  thanks  for  it  as  for  a  favor. 

"  What  we  celebrate  to-day  is  the  last  court  festival,"  said 
the  prisoners,  as  they  ascended  the  cars  to  be  carried  to  the 
guillotine.  "We  have  the  great  good  fortune  of  being 
present  at  the  last  great  levee,  and  we  will  show  ourselves 
worthy  of  the  honor."  All  faces  were  smiling,  all  eyes 
beaming,  and  when  the  twenty-four  condemned  persons 
•dismounted  from  their  cars  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  one 
would  believe  that  he  saw  twenty-four  happy  people  pre- 
paring to  go  to  a  wedding.  No  one  would  have  suspected 
that  it  was  death  to  whom  they  were  to  be  united. 

There  were  only  two  persons  in  this  brilliant  and  select 
society  who  were  less  elegantly  adorned  than  the  others. 
One  was  the  young  girl,  with  the  pale  angel  face,  who  sat 
between  the  sister  of  Malesherbes  and  the  wife  of  the 
former  minister,  Montmorin,  in  a  neat  white  robe,  with  a 
simple  muslin  veil,  that  surrounded  her  like  a  white  cloud 
on  which  she  was  floating  to  heaven.  The  other  was  the 
man  who  sat  behind  her,  whose  firm,  defiant  countenance 
gave  no  token  that  an  hour  before  he  had  wept  hot,  bitter 
tears  as  he  took  leave  of  his  wife  and  only  child.  But  this 
was  all  past,  and  on  that  lofty,  thoughtful  brow  not  the 
slightest  trace  remained  of  earthly  sorrow.  The  pains  of 


TOULAN'S   DEATH.  483 

each  had  been  surmounted,  and,  even  in  death,  Toulan 
would  do  honor  to  the  name  which  that  woman  had  given 
him — whom  he  had  loved  most  sacredly  on  earth — and  he 
would  die  as  Fidele. 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  this  unwontedly  solemn 
company,  who  were  collected  here  in  view  of  the  scaffold, 
had  dismounted  from  the  cars.  Above  stood  the  glistening 
instrument  of  death,  and  near  it  the  executioners.  They 
were  all  left  free  to  decide  in  what  order  they  would  as- 
cend and  place  the  head  beneath  the  axe.  The  Convention 
had  made  the  simple  order  that  Madame  Elizabeth  should 
be  the  last  but  one,  and  that  Toulan  should  follow  her. 

Joyous  and  bright  was  the  countenance  of  the  princess; 
joyous  and  bright  was  the  aspect  of  the  improvised  court, 
whose  master  of  ceremonies  was  Death. 

The  gentlemen  had  begged  the  favor  of  preceding  the 
ladies  upon  the  scaffold.  One  after  another  they  ascended 
the  staircase,  and  in  passing  by  they  greeted  the  princess 
with  the  same  deep  bow  that  would  have  been  given  at 
court.  And  Madame  Elizabeth  thanked  them  with  a  smile 
that  was  not  of  this  world. 

When  the  heads  of  the  twelve  gentlemen  had  fallen,  the 
bodies  laid  on  one  side,  and  the  scaffold  cleansed  a  little 
from  blood,  the  ladies'  turn  came.  Every  one  of  them 
asked  the  favor  of  embracing  Princess  Elizabeth,  and,  with 
the  kiss  which  she  pressed  upon  their  lips,  a  heavenly  joy 
seemed  to  spring  up  in  their  hearts.  With  smiles  they  as- 
cended the  scaffold,  with  smiles  they  placed  their  heads 
beneath  the  axe. 

The  last  of  the  ladies,  the  Marchioness  de  Crussol  d'Am- 
boise,  had  received  the  parting  kiss  and  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  guillotine.  Only  Elizabeth  and  Toulan  now  re- 
mained at  the  foot. 

"Fide"le,"  whispered  Elizabeth  in  gentle  tones,  "I  shall 
soon  be  with  my  brother  and  my  sister.  Give  me  your 
hand,  my  brother.  You  shall  conduct  me  to  death,  and  I 
will  give  you  my  hand  above,  at  the  opening  of  the  new 
life,  and  conduct  you  to  Marie  Antoinette.  '  Sister, '  I  will 
say  to  her,  'this  is  the  one  true  and  good  heart  which  beat 
on  earth  for  you,  and  I  bring  it  to  you  that  you  may  re- 
joice in  it  in  heaven. '  Toulan,  there  is  only  one  title  of 


484  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

honor  for  all  men,  and  that  is  Fidele.  It  is  sanctioned 
even  by  the  word  of  God:  'Be  thou  faithful  unto  death, 
and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  life.'" 

Just  at  that  moment  the  axe  rattled,  there  was  a  muffled 
sound,  and  the  head  of  the  Marchioness  Crussol  d'Amboise 
fell  into  the  basket. 

"Elizabeth  Capet,  it  is  your  turn — come  up!" 

"I  come." 

She  ascended  the  scaffold.  Arrayed,  as  she  was,  in  this 
white  robe,  her  transparent  face  was  like  that  of  an  angel. 
It  seemed  to  Toulan  as  if  her  foot  no  longer  rested  on  the 
earth.  He  followed  her  to  the  scaffold;  and  as  she  was 
about  to  ascend  the  steps,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Princess,  I  have  a  secret  to  impart  to  you.  I  have 
promised  with  a  solemn  oath  that  my  lips  should  disclose  it 
to  no  mortal;  but  you,  Elizabeth,  belong  already  to  the 
immortals,  the  peace  of  God  illumines  your  brow,  and  I 
want  you  to  have  one  last  joy  before  you  ascend  into  heaven. 
This  is  my  secret :  The  boy  who  is  confined  in  the  Temple 
is  not  the  dauphin.  I  have  fulfilled  the  promise  which  I 
gave  the  queen.  I  have  saved  the  dauphin,  and  he  is  now 
in  Vendee,  under  the  safe  care  of  Prince  de  Conde." 

"  Elizabeth  Capet,  come  up,  or  we  must  bring  you  by 
force." 

"  I  am  coming.  Farewell,  Fidele !  you  have  spoken  the 
truth;  you  have  given  me  a  last  joy!  I  thank  you;  now 
kiss  my  lips;  give  your  sister  a  parting  kiss,  Fidele.  Fare- 
well, my  brother!" 

He  touched  the  lips  that  were  illumined  with  a  sad 
smile — "Farewell,  my  sister!" 

She  ascended  the  steps,  and,  reaching  the  scaffold,  she 
calmly  laid  aside  the  veil,  and  prepared  her  toilet  for  death. 

At  the  foot  of  the  scaffold  Toulan  remained  upon  his 
knees;  his  great  eyes,  which  had  been  directed  to  Eliza- 
beth, beamed  with  rapture,  and  in  his  heart  there  were 
words  written  with  a  finger  of  diamond — words  hallowed 
and  comforting,  that  Toulan  read  in  meditation  and 
prayer:  "Love  vanquishes  death;  love  is  victorious  even 
over  life;  love,  which  is  the  highest  friendship,  and  friend- 
ship, which  is  the  highest  love,  rise  so  far  above  every 
thing  earthly,  that  thou  must  surrender  every  thing  for 


TOULAN'S   DEATH.  485 

them,  every  thing  which  thou  hast  valued  upon  earth, 
every  thing  which  has  stood  to  thee  in  the  most  tender  re- 
lations. In  this  love  thou  hast  lived,  and  in  this  love  thou 
shalt  die  and  ascend  into  heaven." 

"  Toulan,  come  up!  Do  you  not  hear  us  calling  you? 
Do  you  not  see  that  Elizabeth  Capet  has  made  place  for 
you?" 

He  had  not  seen  when  the  noble  head  of  the  princess  fell 
into  the  basket,  he  had  not  heard  the  executioner  call  him ; 
he  had  only  read  in  his  heart  the  revelation  of  love. 

He  ascended  the  steps,  and  his  countenance  beamed  with 
the  same  light  of  rapture  which  had  surrounded  Eliza- 
beth's brow. 

A  piercing  scream  came  from  the  crowd,  as  a  young  wife 
fell  senseless  into  the  arms  of  her  neighbors,  while  the  boy 
who  stood  near  her  extended  his  hands  to  the  scaffold,  and 
called,  loudly,  "Father,  dear  father!" 

Toulan  did  not  turn  to  them.  No  earthly  sorrow  had 
place  in  this  soul,  which  had  overcome  pain,  and  received 
eternal  joy  into  itself. 

Calmly  he  laid  his  head  beneath  the  axe.  "  God  is  love," 
he  said,  aloud.  "  He  that  abideth  in  love,  abideth  in  God, 
and  God — " 

The  axe  descended,  and  left  Toulan 's  last  words  un- 
spoken. 


BOOK    VI. 
CHAPTER    XXIX. 

WITHOUT   NAME   AND   RANK. 

THE  Prince  de  Conde  was  walking  with  quick  steps  up 
and  down  his  apartment.  His  brow  was  cloudy,  his  eyes 
wore  a  sad  look,  and  at  times  he  raised  his  hand,  as  if  he 
would  remove  a  veil  that  darkened  his  sight. 

"It  must  be,"  he  said,  decisively,  after  a  while.  "  Yes, 
it  must  be;  I  see  no  other  means  of  saving  him  from  the 
snares  of  his  enemies  and  friends.  He  must  leave,  and 
that  at  once." 

He  walked  hastily  to  the  table,  pulled  the  bell  violently, 
and  ordered  the  servant  who  came  in  to  bring  the  boy  who 
came  yesterday  to  him. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  door  opened,  and  a  boy  of  ten 
or  twelve  years,  with  great  blue  eyes,  fair  hair,  graceful 
form,  and  delicate  complexion,  came  into  the  room.  At 
his  appearance  the  Prince  de  Conde  seemed  deeply  moved. 
He  hastened  with  open  arms  to  meet  the  boy,  pressed  him 
closely  to  his  heart,  and  kissed  his  fair  hair  and  eyes. 

"Welcome,  a  thousand  times  welcome!"  he  said,  with 
trembling  voice.  "  How  long  have  I  desired  to  see  this 
moment,  and  how  happy  I  am  that  it  has  come  at  last! 
You  are  saved,  you  are  restored  to  freedom,  to  life,  and 
there  is  in  store  for  you,  I  hope,  a  great  and  brilliant 
future!" 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  thank  you  for  it,  my  cousin,"  said 
the  boy,  with  his  sweet,  resonant  voice.  "  You  have  re- 
leased me  from  the  dreadful  prison,  and  I  thank  you  for 
life.  I  am  glad,  too,  that  I  see  you  at  last,  for  I  wanted  so 


WITHOUT   NAME   AND    RANK.  487 

much  to  express  my  thanks,  and  every  evening  I  have 
prayed  to  God  to  grant  me  the  happiness  of  greeting  my 
dear  cousin,  the  Prince  de  Conde." 

The  joyous  light  had  long  since  faded  from  the  face  of 
the  prince,  and  a  cloud  was  gathering  on  his  brow,  as,  with 
a  timid,  searching  look,  he  glanced  around,  as  if  he  feared 
that  some  one  besides  himself  might  hear  the  words  of  the 
boy. 

"Do  not  call  me  your  cousin,"  he  said,  softly;  and  even 
his  voice  was  changed,  and  became  cold  and  husky. 

The  boy  fixed  his  great  blue  eyes  with  an  expression  of 
astonishment  on  the  gloomy  countenance  of  the  Prince  de 
Conde. 

"  You  are  no  longer  glad  to  see  me  here?  Is  it  disagree- 
able to  you  for  me  to  call  you  my  cousin?" 

The  prince  made  no  answer  at  once,  but  walked  up  and 
down  with  great  strides,  and  then  stood  still  before  the 
boy,  who  had  calmly  observed  his  impatient  motions. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  the  Prince  de  Conde — "let  us 
sit  down  and  talk." 

He  gave  his  hand  to  the  boy,  led  him  to  the  divan,  and 
took  his  own  place  upon  an  easy-chair,  directly  opposite  to 
the  child. 

"  Let  us  talk,"  he  repeated.  "  I  should  like  to  know,  in 
the  first  place,  whether  you  have  a  good  memory,  for  I 
have  been  told  that  your  head  has  suffered,  and  that  you 
have  no  recollection  of  the  past." 

A  gentle,  sad  smile  played  around  the  lips  of  the  boy. 

"  I  have  been  silent  about  the  past,  as  I  have  been  com- 
manded to,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"Do  you  remember  your  mother?"  asked  the  prince. 

The  boy  trembled  convulsively,  a  glowing  red  passed  over 
his  cheeks,  and  a  deep  paleness  followed. 

"Monsieur,"  he  asked,  with  a  tremulous  voice,  "would 
it  be  possible  for  me  to  forget  my  dear  mamma  queen? — 
my  mamma  queen  who  loved  her  little  Louis  Charles  so 
much?  Ah,  sir,  you  would  not  have  asked  that  if  you  had 
known  how  much  pain  you  give  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  prince,  embarrassed.  "  I 
see  you  remember.  But  let  me  try  you  once  more.  Will 
you  tell  me  what  happened  to  you  after  being  taken  away 


488  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

from  your  cruel  foster-parents?  AVhat  were  those  people's 
names,  and  what  were  they?" 

"  My  foster-parents,  or  my  tormentors  rather,  were  called 
Mr.  and  Mistress  Simon.  The  man  had  been  a  cobbler, 
but  afterward  he  was  superintendent  and  turnkey  in  the 
Temple,  and  when  I  was  taken  away  from  my  mamma,  sister, 
and  aunt,  I  had  to  live  with  these  dreadful  people." 

"  Did  you  fare  badly  there?" 

"Very  badly,  sir;  I  was  scolded  and  ill-treated,  and  the 
worst  of  all  was  that  they  wanted  to  compel  me  to  sing 
ribald  songs  about  my  mamma  queen." 

"But  you  did  not  sing  these  songs?"  asked  the  Prince 
de  Conde. 

The  eyes  of  the  boy  flamed.  "No,"  he  said,  proudly, 
"  I  did  not  sing  them.  They  might  have  beaten  me  to 
death.  I  would  rather  have  died  than  have  done  it." 

The  prince  nodded  approvingly.  "And  how  did  you 
escape  from  these  people?"  he  asked. 

"You  know,  Prince  de  Conde,"  answered  the  boy,  smil- 
ing. "  It  is  you  who  helped  me  escape." 

"Tell  me  about  this  matter  a  little,"  said  the  prince, 
"  and  how  you  have  fared  since  then.  I  contributed,  as 
you  suppose,  to  your  release,  but  I  was  not  present  in  per- 
son. How  did  you  escape  from  the  Temple?" 

"  I  was  put  into  a  basket  with  soiled  clothes,  which  Mis- 
tress Simon  was  taking  away  with  her  from  the  Temple. 
This  basket  she  gave  to  a  washerwoman  who  was  waiting 
for  us  at  the  Macon  gate.  She  had  a  little  donkey-cart  in 
readiness  there,  the  basket  was  put  into  it,  and  went  on  to 
a  village,  the  name  of  which  I  do  not  know.  There  we 
stopped ;  I  was  taken  out  of  the  basket  and  carried  into  a 
house,  where  we  remained  a  few  hours  to  rest  and  change 
our  clothes." 

"  We?     Whom  do  you  mean  by  we?" 

"Me  and  the  supposed  washerwoman,"  replied  the  boy. 
"  This  woman  was,  however,  no  other  than  M.  de  Jarjayes, 
whom  I  knew  long  ago,  and  who,  with  Fidele — I  should 
say,  with  Toulan — had  thought  out  and  executed  the  plan 
of  my  escape.  M.  de  Jarjayes  changed  his  clothes,  as  did 
I  also,  and  after  remaining  concealed  in  the  house  all  day, 
in  the  evening  we  took  a  carriage  and  rode  all  night.  On 


WITHOUT   NAME   AND   RANK.  489 

the  next  day  we  remained  concealed  in  some  house,  and  in 
the  night  we  continued  our  journey." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  where  you  were  going?" 

"Jarjayes  told  me  that  the  Prince  de  Conde  was  my 
protector  and  deliverer,  that  the  magnanimous  prince  had 
furnished  the  necessary  money,  and  that  I  should  remain 
concealed  in  one  of  his  palaces  till  the  time  should  arrive 
to  acknowledge  me  publicly.  Till  then,  said  M.  de  Jar- 
jayes to  me,  I  was  never  to  speak  of  the  past,  nor  disclose  a 
single  word  about  any  thing  that  concerned  myself  or  my 
family.  He  told  me  that  if  I  did  not  follow  his  instruc- 
tions literally,  I  should  not  only  be  brought  back  to  Simon, 
but  I  should  have  to  bear  the  blame  of  causing  the  death  of 
my  sister  Therese  and  my  aunt  Elizabeth.  You  can  un- 
derstand, my  prince,  that  after  that  I  was  dumb." 

"  Yes.  I  understand.  Where  did  M.  de  Jarjayes  carry 
you?" 

"  To  one  of  the  palaces  of  the  Prince  de  Conde  in  loyal 
and  beautiful  Vendee.  Ah,  it  was  very  delightful  there, 
and  there  were  very  pleasant  people  about  me.  The  story 
was  that  I  was  a  nephew  of  the  prince,  and  that  on  account 
of  impaired  health,  I  was  obliged  to  go  into  the  country  and 
must  be  tended  with  great  care.  I  had  a  preceptor  there 
who  gave  me  instruction,  and  sometimes  the  brave  Gen- 
eral Charette  came  to  the  palace  on  a  visit.  He  was  always 
very  polite  to  me,  and  showed  me  all  kinds  of  attention. 
One  day  he  asked  me  to  walk  with  him  in  the  park.  I  did 
so,  of  course,  and  just  as  we  entered  a  dark  allee  he  fell 
upon  his  knees,  called  me  majesty,  said  he  knew  very  well 
that  I  was  the  King  of  France,  and  that  the  noble  and 
loyal  Prince  de  Conde  had  rescued  me  from  prison." 

"The  devil!"  muttered  the  prince  to  himself,  "our  dear 
friends  are  always  our  worst  enemies." 

The  boy  paid  no  attention  to  the  words  of  Conde,  and 
went  on:  "  The  general  conjured  me  to  confess  to  him  that 
I  was  the  son  of  King  Louis,  and  I  should  follow  him,  re- 
main with  his  little  army,  which  would  acknowledge  me  at 
once,  and  proclaim  me  King  of  France." 

"And  what  did  you  answer?"  asked  Conde,  eagerly. 

"  My  lord,"  replied  the  boy,  with  proud,  grave  mien,  "  I 
told  you  that  I  gave  my  word  to  M.  de  Jarjayes  to  divulge 


490  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

nothing  till  you  should  tell  me  that  the  right  time  had  ar- 
rived. I  could  therefore  confess  nothing  to  Charette,  and 
told  him  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  great  error,  and  that  I 
have  and  can  lay  claim  to  no  other  honor  than  of  being 
the  nephew  of  the  Prince  de  Conde. " 

"You  said  that?"  asked  Conde,  in  amazement. 

The  boy  raised  his  head  with  a  quick  movement,  and 
something  of  the  proud  and  fiery  nature  of  Louis  XIV. 
flashed  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  did  not  know  then,"  he  replied,  "  that  my  relationship 
to  the  Prince  de  Conde  was  not  agreeable  to  him." 

The  prince  looked  troubled  and  perplexed,  and  dropped 
his  eyes  before  the  piercing  gaze  of  the  boy.  "  Go  on,  if 
I  may  venture  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  softly.  "What  did 
General  Charette  do  when  you  repelled  him?" 

"  First  he  implored,  and  wept,  and  conjured  me  to  trust 
him,  and  to  lay  aside  my  incognito  before  him,  the  truest 
and  best  of  royalists.  But  as  I  continued  steadfast,  and 
disclosed  nothing,  he  became  angry  at  length,  pushed  me 
away  from  him,  threatened  me  with  his  fist,  swore  he  would 
have  his  revenge  on  those  who  had  deceived  him,  and  de- 
clared that  I  was  no  Bourbon,  for  the  son  of  my  fathers 
would  not  be  so  weak  and  cowardly  as  to  conceal  his  name 
and  lineage." 

"  And  you  kept  silent,  in  spite  of  this  demand?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  I  kept  silent;  and,  notwithstanding  his 
pain  and  grief,  I  left  him  in  the  belief  that  he  had  deceived 
himself,  or  rather,  that  he  had  been  deceived." 

"Oh!"  cried  Conde,  "it  is  plain  that  you  have  been 
steeled  in  the  school  of  suffering,  and  that  the  years  of 
misfortune  like  yours  must  each  be  reckoned  double,  for, 
in  spite  of  your  twelve  years,  you  have  acted  like  a  man!" 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  boy,  proudly,  "the  Bourbons  at- 
tain their  majority  at  fifteen,  and  at  that  age  they  may, 
according  to  the  law  of  France,  become  independent  sover- 
eigns. They  ought,  therefore,  to  begin  to  learn  young. 
That  was  the  opinion  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  who 
taught  me  to  read  in  my  fifth  year.  You,  my  lord,  have, 
in  your  magnanimity,  done  every  thing  to  make  me  able 
to  conform  to  the  laws  of  my  house,  if  it  shall  please  God 
that  the  son  of  my  dear  unfortunate  father  should  one  day 


WITHOUT   NAME   AND   RANK.  491 

ascend  the  vacant  throne  of  the  Bourbons.  During  these 
two  years  which  I  have  spent  in  concealment  in  your  palace 
in  Vendee,  you  have  laid  a  strong  and  firm  foundation,  on 
which  the  superstructure  of  my  life  may  rest.  I  have, 
thanks  to  the  excellent  teachers  you  have  given  me,  had 
an  opportunity  to  learn  much,  and  to  recall  much  which  I 
had  forgotten  during  the  years  before  my  release  from  im- 
prisonment." 

"  Your  teachers  inform  me  that  your  industry  was  un- 
ceasing, and  that  you  learned  more  in  months  than  some 
do  in  years.  You  are  familiar  with  several  languages,  and, 
besides,  have  been  instructed,  as  I  desired,  in  the  art  of  war 
and  in  mathematics." 

"In  the  studies  of  kings  and  soldiers,"  replied  the  boy, 
with  a  proud  smile. 

"  I  fear  that  you  will  prove  not  to  have  prosecuted  those 
studies  with  a  view  to  their  use  among  soldiers,"  said 
Conde,  with  a  sigh.  "  Your  prospects  are  very  dark — yes, 
darker  even  than  when  you  left  the  Temple.  These  two 
years  have  made  your  condition  more  perilous.  It  was 
fortunate  that  you  could  spend  them  in  solitude  and  secrecy, 
and  be  able  to  finish  your  education,  and  it  would  be  a 
great  blessing  to  you  to  be  able  to  go  on  with  your  quiet 
studies  for  some  years  longer.  But  your  enemies  had 
sought  you  without  rest ;  they  were  on  your  track,  and  had 
I  left  you  there  any  longer,  you  would  have  been  found 
some  day  stabbed  or  shot  in  the  park.  The  steward  in- 
formed me  that  all  kinds  of  suspicious  people  had  gathered 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  palace  and  the  garden,  and  I 
conjecture  that  they  were  the  emissaries  of  your  enemies. 
On  this  I  took  you  away  from  that  place,  and  have  brought 
you  here  for  your  greater  safety.  Now  allow  me  one  ques- 
tion. Do  you  know  who  your  enemies  are?" 

"I  think  I  know  them,"  replied  Louis  Charles,  with  a 
sad  smile.  "  My  enemies  are  the  self-same  men  who 
brought  my  father  and  my  mother  to  the  scaffold,  de- 
stroyed the  throne,  and  in  its  place  gave  France  a  red  cap. 
My  enemies  are  the  republicans,  who  now  rule  in  this  land, 
and  whose  great  object  must,  of  course,  be  to  put  me  out 
of  the  way,  for  my  life  is  their  death!  France  will  one 
day  be  tired  of  the  red  cap,  and  will  restore  the  throne  to 
32 


492  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

him  to  whom  it  belongs,  so  soon  as  it  is  certain  that  he  who 
is  entitled  to  the  crown,  is  living  to  wear  it." 

"  And  who  do  you  suppose  is  justified  in  wearing  the 
crown  of  France?" 

"  You  ask  as  if  you  did  not  know  that  I  am  the  only  son 
and  heir  of  the  murdered  King  of  France." 

"  The  only  son,  but  not  the  only  heir.  Your  inheritance 
will  be  contested;  and  even  if  France  should  transform 
herself  from  a  republic  to  a  monarchy,  every  attempt  pos- 
sible will  be  made  to  drive  you,  the  son  of  Louis  XVI., 
from  the  throne,  and  put  the  crown  on  the  head  of  an- 
other." 

"  Sir,  if  monarchy  is  uppermost  again,  the  crown  belongs 
to  me.  Who,  in  that  case,  would  venture  to  contend  with 
me  for  it?" 

"Your  enemies!  Not  those  whom  you  have  just  named, 
but  the  other  half  of  your  enemies,  of  whose  existence  you 
have  no  suspicion,  it  seems — your  enemies,  the  royalists." 

"How  so?"  cried  Louis  Charles,  in  amazement.  "Do 
you  call  the  royalists  my  enemies?" 

"  Yes,  and  they  are  so,  your  powerful,  defiant,  and  un- 
tiring enemies.  Do  you  not  see  that  even  here  in  this  room 
I  do  not  dare  to  give  you  the  title  that  is  your  due,  for 
fear  that  the  walls  may  have  ears  and  increase  the  danger 
which  threatens  you?  I  will  now  name  to  you  the  greatest 
of  your  enemies — the  Count  de  Provence." 

"How!  my  uncle,  the  brother  of  my  father,  he  my 
enemy?" 

"  He  is  your  enemy,  as  he  was  the  enemy  of  your  mother. 
Believe  me,  young  man,  it  is  not  the  people  who  have  made 
the  revolution  in  France ;  it  is  the  princes  who  have  done 
it.  The  Count  de  Provence,  the  Count  d'Artois,  and 
the  Duke  d'Orleans — they  are  the  chief  revolutionists; 
they  it  is  who  have  put  fire  to  the  throne ;  they  it  is  who 
have  sown  the  libels  and  lampoons  broadcast  over  France, 
and  made  the  name  of  Marie  Antoinette  odious.  They 
did  it  out  of  hate,  out  of  revenge,  and  out  of  ambition. 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette  had  won  her  husband  over  to  the 
policy  of  Austria,  and  in  this  way  had  set  herself  in  op- 
position to  the  Count  de  Provence,  and  the  whole  royal 
family.  The  count  never  forgave  her  for  this,  and  he  will 


WITHOUT   NAME   AND   RANK.  493 

never  forgive  you  for  being  the  son  of  your  mother.  The 
Count  de  Provence,  as  he  now  styles  himself,  is  your 
sworn  enemy,  and  will  do  all  he  can  to  bring  you  to 
ruin ;  he  is  ambitious,  and  his  goal  is,  to  be  the  King  of 
France!" 

"King of  France?  The  Count  de  Provence,  the  brother 
of  the  king,  wants  to  be  his  successor,  when  I,  the  son  of 
the  king,  am  alive  and  demand  my  inheritance?" 

"  Your  demand  will  not  be  acknowledged :  they  will  de- 
clare that  you  are  an  impostor  and  a  deceiver.  Ah,  the 
Count  de  Provence  is  a  selfish  and  a  hard  character.  He 
means  to  make  his  own  way,  and  if  you  put  hinderances  in 
it,  he  will  put  you  out  of  his  path,  without  compassion 
and  without  remorse;  trust  me  for  knowing  this,  who  for 
three  years  have  been  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
the  prince.  I  was  afraid  to  impart  the  plan  of  your  escape 
to  the  princes,  and,  after  you  were  released,  I  was  silent, 
for  a  secret  is  only  safe  when  a  very  few  are  conscious  of  it. 
But  after  the  news  came  last  year  from  Paris,  that  the  boy 
who  had  been  placed  as  your  substitute  in  the  Temple  had 
died ,  after  a  long  sickness,  I  ventured  to  inform  the  Count  de 
Lille  about  the  real  facts.  I  told  him  that  I  believed  that 
information  I  had  received  might  be  relied  upon,  that 
King  Louis  XVII.  had  been  released  from  the  Temple  by 
true  and  devoted  servants,  and  was  then  in  a  place  of 
safety.  Would  you  like  to  know  what  reply  the  count 
made?" 

"I  pray  you,  tell  me,"  responded  Louis  Charles,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  He  answered  me,  'I  advise  you,  cousin,  not  to  put  any 
confidence  in  such  idle  stories,  and  not  to  be  duped  by  any 
sly  rogues.  My  unfortunate  little  nephew  died  in  the 
Temple — that  is  a  fact  acknowledged  by  the  republic,  uni- 
versally believed,  and  denied  by  no  one.  After  long  suffer- 
ings the  son  has  fallen  as  a  new  victim  to  the  bloodthirsty 
republicans,  and  we  are  still  wearing  mourning  for  our  de- 
ceased nephew,  King  Louis  XVII.  And  should  any  wise- 
head  happen  on  the  thought  of  making  the  dead  boy  come 
to  life  again,  I  will  be  the  first  to  disown  him  and  hold  him 
as  an  impostor. '  Those  were  the  words  of  the  count,  and 
you  will  now  confess  that  I  am  right  in  calling  him  your 


494  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

enemy,  and  in  not  daring  to  communicate  to  him  the  se- 
cret of  your  release?" 

"  I  grant  you,"  replied  the  prince,  sadly,  "  I  would  rather 
bury  the  secret  forever." 

"  Now,  hear  me  further.  A  few  weeks  ago  the  prince 
summoned  me,  and  I  saw  on  his  sinister  face  and  in  his 
flashing  eyes  that  he  must  have  received  some  unwelcome 
tidings.  He  did  not  make  me  wait  long  for  the  confirma- 
tion of  my  conjectures.  With  a  sharp,  cutting  voice  he 
asked  me  what  kind  of  a  nephew  of  mine  that  was  whom  I 
was  educating  at  my  palace  in  Vendee.  General  de  Cha- 
rette  had  given  him  information  through  one  of  his  emis- 
saries sending  him  word  that  the  report  was  current  in 
Vendee  that  this  alleged  nephew  of  mine  was  the  rescued 
King  Lou;s  XVII.,  whom  I  had  helped  release  from  the 
Temple.  He,  General  Charette,  had  believed  it  at  first. 
He  had  therefore  (so  the  prince  went  on  to  say)  visited  my 
palace  recently,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  the  supposed 
young  king.  There  he  convinced  himself  that  the  boy 
bore  no  resemblance  to  the  little  Louis  Charles — whom  he 
had  once  seen  at  the  Tuileries — and  that  he  certainly  was 
not  the  son  of  Louis  XVI." 

"  He  told  me  only  too  truly  that  he  would  have  his  re- 
venge," whispered  the  young  prince. 

"  He  has  kept  his  oath,  for  he  has  loudly  and  publicly 
declared  his  belief  that  Louis  XVII.  died  in  the  Temple, 
arid  he  has  therefore  administered  to  his  army  an  oath  in 
favor  of  King  Louis  XVIII. — that  is,  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence. The  count  himself  informed  me  of  this,  and  then 
added,  threateningly,  'I  advise,  you,  cousin,  either  to  ac- 
knowledge your  young  nephew,  and  treat  him  openly,  or 
else  put  him  out  of  the  way.  I  advise  you  further,  not  to 
let  yourself  be  imposed  upon  by  adventurers  and  impostors. 
It  is  known  that  you  were  among  the  most  active  adherents 
of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  and  there  may  be  people  who 
would  work  on  your  credulity  and  make  you  believe  that 
the  poor  little  Lonis  Charles  was  really  released  from  the 
Temple.  Do  not  deny  that  you  parted  with  much  money 
at  that  time,  and  believed  that  it  was  wanted  for  the  pur- 
pose of  setting  the  young  King  of  France  free.  It  was  a 
trap,  set  in  view  of  your  loyalty  and  devotion,  and  you  fell 


WITHOUT    NAME   AND   RANK.  495 

into  it.  But  you  gave  your  money  to  no  effect,  the  poor, 
pitiable  king  could  not  be  saved,  and  died  in  the  Temple 
as  a  prisoner  of  the  republic.  Take  care  how  you  trust  any 
idle  stories,  for,  I  tell  you,  you  would  never  bring  me  to 
put  confidence  in  them.  I  am  now  the  rightful  King  of 
France — I  am  Louis  XVIII. — and  I  am  resolved  not  only 
fco  declare  every  pretender  who  claims  to  be  Louis  XVII. 
an  impostor,  but  to  bring  him  to  punishment  as  a  traitor. 
Mark  this  well,  and  therefore  warn  this  mysterious  nephew 
of  yours  not  to  venture  on  playing  out  his  comedy,  for  it 
will  assuredly  change  into  tragedy,  and  end  with  his  death. ' 
These  were  the  words  of  the  Count  de  Lille,  and  now  you 
understand  why  I  have  brought  you  so  suddenly,  and  so 
secretly,  away  from  my  solitary  palace  and  have  you  here." 

"I  understand  every  thing,"  said  Louis  Charles,  with  a 
sigh ;  "  I  understand,  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  you 
had  never  released  me,  and  I  had  died  like  my  father  and 
mother." 

"We  must  postpone  the  accomplishment  of  our  hopes," 
said  Conde,  sadly,  "for  I  confess  to  you,  there  is  little  to 
expect  from  the  present,  and  there  is  no  place  where  you 
are  safe  from  the  persecutions  and  the  daggers  of  your 
enemies.  The  republicans  desire  your  death  as  much  as 
the  royalists.  In  France,  two  parties  threaten  you,  and 
would  I  now  risk  every  thing,  carry  you  to  some  European 
court  and  acquaint  the  sovereign  of  your  arrival,  and  ask 
for  his  assistance,  I  should  have  no  credence,  for,  not  the 
French  republic  alone,  but  the  Count  de  Lille  would  pro- 
test against  it,  and  disavow  you  before  all  Europe.  It  is, 
therefore,  absolutely  necessary,  in  order  to  secure  you 
against  your  enemies,  that  you  should  disappear  for  a 
season,  and  that  we  patiently  await  the  time  which  shall 
permit  us  to  bring  you  back  upon  the  scenes." 

"Do  you  believe  that  time  will  ever  come?"  asked  the 
little  prince,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  I  believe  it,  and,  above  every  thing,  I  hope  it,"  replied 
Conde,  quickly.  "  The  greatest  difficulty  is  to  find  a  place 
for  you  to  remain  where  you  may  not  be  suspected,  and 
where  you  may  be  safe  from  assault.  To  my  great  regret 
I  cannot  entertain  you  here,  for  my  family  are  too  well 
known  for  me  to  suddenly  acknowledge  a  legitimate 


496  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

nephew  of  your  age,  and  the  Count  de  Lille  would  be  the 
last  to  believe  it.  I  confess  that  it  has  cost  me  a  great  deal 
of  disquiet  and  anxious  thought  to  find  a  secure  asylum  for 
you." 

"And  do  you  think  you  have  found  one  at  last?"  asked 
Louis  Charles,  indifferently. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,  or  rather,  I  know  that  I  have  found 
one.  You  must  be  taken  to  a  place  which  no  one  can  sus- 
pect as  that  where  you  would  be  likely  to  be." 

"  And  what  place  is  this?" 

"  It  is  called  Mayence." 

The  boy,  who  had  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  perhaps  in 
order  not  to  let  some  tears  be  seen,  looked  quickly  up,  and 
the  greatest  astonishment  was  depicted  in  his  expressive 
features. 

"Mayence?"  he  asked.  "Is  not  that  a  fortress  on  the 
Ehine  which  the  troops  of  the  French  republic  have  taken 
possession  of?" 

"Yes;  and  the  commandant  of  Mayence,  the  head  of 
the  troops,  is  General  Kleber,  one  of  the  bravest  and 
noblest  soldiers  of  the  French  republic." 

"And  you,  you  want  to  send  me  to  this  General  Kleber? 
Ah,  my  prince,  that  would  be  thrusting  me,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  rescuing  me  from  persecution,  into  the  very  crater 
of  the  volcano." 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  you  suppose,  my  young  friend. 
General  Kleber  is  at  heart  a  good  and  true  royalist,  and 
although  hejerves  the  republic,  he  does  so  because  he  is 
first  of  all  a  soldier,  a  soldier  of  his  country,  and  because 
his  country  now  has  pressing  need  of  soldiers  to  defend  the 
honor  and  glory  of  France.  I  have  sent  a  trustworthy  man 
to  General  Kleber  to  impart  this  secret  to  him,  and  to  ask 
him  for  protection,  and  a  place  of  refuge  for  you.  General 
Kleber  is  ready  to  grant  both,  and  he  has  sent  his  adjutant 
to  Coblentz  to  escort  his  nephew  to  Mayence.  You  are 
that  nephew,  and  if  you  give  your  consent,  you  will  set  out 
at  once  and  go  to  Mayence." 

"  And  if  I  do  not  give  my  consent?"  asked  Louis  Charles, 
with  a  proud,  flashing  look. 

"  I  confess,"  said  Conde,  with  a  shrug — "I  confess  that 
I  am  not  prepared  for  that  contingency,  and  cannot  on  the 


WITHOUT   NAME    AND   RANK.  497 

instant  grasp  all  the  unfortunate  results  which  would  ensue 
on  your  refusal." 

"  Be  calmed,  Conde,  I  do  not  refuse.  I  have  only  this 
one  thing  to  care  for,  to  cause  no  danger,  and  bring  noth- 
ing disagreeable  to  you,  for  I  see  that  they  are  in  store  for 
you  if  I  do  not  disappear  again  from  view.  The  son  of  the 
king  vanished  from  sight,  to  appear  as  the  nephew  of 
Conde;  and  now  the  nephew  of  Conde  is  to  vanish,  to 
emerge  as  the  nephew  of  General  Kleber.  Ah,  who  knows 
but  I  may  yet  be  the  nephew  of  Simon  the  cobbler,  pre- 
paratory to  my  last  appearance  on  the  guillotine?" 

"  I  hope,  on  the  contrary,  that  on  the  day  when  France 
shall  rise  again,  you  will  rise  too,  the  acknowledged  son  of 
Louis  XVI.,  and  the  heir  of  the  throne  of  France.  At 
present  the  republic  has  sway,  and  there  is  no  hope  of  an 
immediate  change.  But  that  will  not  last  always;  and  in 
the  decisive  hour,  when  the  monarchy  and  the  republic 
come  to  their  last  great  battle  for  existence — at  that  hour 
you  must  appear  upon  the  field,  must  lift  the  lilies  high  in 
the  air,  and  summon  the  royalists  to  your  side  in  the  name 
of  God,  and  of  the  king  your  father." 

"  And  what  if  my  uncle,  the  Count  de  Provence,  then 
declares  me  to  be  an  impostor?" 

"  Then  you  must  publicly  and  solemnly  appeal  to  France, 
lay  the  proofs  of  your  lineage  before  the  nation,  summon 
unimpeachable  witnesses,  and  demand  your  throne  of  the 
French  nation.  And  believe  me,  if  the  heart  of  France 
is  compelled  to  choose  between  you  and  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence, it  will  not  choose  him,  for  the  count  has  never  poB- 
sessed  the  heart  of  the  people,  and  God  is  just." 

"God  is  just,"  replied  Louis  Charles,  sadly — "God  is 
just,  and  yet  the  King  and  Queen  of  France  have  perished 
on  the  guillotine,  and  their  brother  calls  himself  King  of 
France,  while  the  son  of  Louis  XVI.  must  find  shelter  with 
a  general  of  that  French  republic  which  was  the  enemy  of 
my  parents." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Conde,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  very  difficult 
at  times  to  see  the  justice  of  God,  but  we  must  always  hope 
to  see  it,  and  at  length  it  will  reveal  itself  in  all  its  glory. 
And  the  hour  of  judgment  will  come  for  you.  Await  it 
steadfastly  and  with  patience,  and  when  it  is  come,  call  on 


498  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

me,  and  I  will  not  neglect  your  summons,  but  will  support 
you,  and  will  give  you  my  recognition.  I  have  all  the 
documents  which  relate  to  your  flight,  all  the  testimony 
given  by  those  who  were  engaged  in  assisting  you,  and  be- 
sides this,  a  detailed  account  of  your  flight,  subscribed 
with  my  name,  and  stamped  with  my  seal.  I  have  further 
the  testimony  of  the  teachers  who  gave  you  instruction  at 
my  palace  of  Chambord,  and  the  keeper  of  the  palace  re- 
corded the  day  on  which  you  arrived.  I  am  ready  to  give 
you  these  papers,  if  you  will  swear  to  me  that  you  will  not 
misuse  them,  but  give  them  to  General  Kleber,  that  he 
may  preserve  them  for  you." 

"I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  do  so,"  said  the  prince, 
solemnly. 

Conde  handed  to  him  a  small  and  closely-rolled  package 
of  papers.  "This  contains  your  future,"  he  said,  "and 
out  of  these  papers  I  hope  a  crown  will  grow  for  you.  Till 
then  let  the  republic  preserve  them  for  you.  General  Kle- 
ber is  expecting  you,  and  his  adjutant  is  waiting  for  you  in 
the  next  room.  Permit  me  to  give  you  one  more  piece  of 
advice:  remain  steadfast,  resist  all  tempters  who  would  be- 
guile you  with  pleasant  words  to  acknowledge  yourself 
King  of  France.  For  be  persuaded  these  tempters  are  the 
emissaries  of  your  enemies,  and  if  you  should  acknowledge 
to  them  that  you  are  King  Louis  XVII.,  you  would  be 
writing  your  own  death-warrant.  The  balls  which  I  trust 
will  spare  the  nephew  of  General  Kleber  would  certainly 
pierce  the  heart  of  the  nephew  of  Count  de  Lille.  Con- 
tinue to  deny  it  as  you  denied  it  to  General  Charette. 
Swear  to  me  that  you  will  faithfully  keep  the  secret  of  your 
lineage  till  I  release  you  from  the  oath  by  which  I  now 
close  your  lips,  and  tell  you  that  the  hour  of  action  and  of 
disclosures  is  come;  swear  it  to  me,  in  view  of  the  fidelity 
which  I  have  shown  to  you,  and  which  I  shall  always  be 
ready  to  show." 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  said  Louis  Charles,  solemnly. 
"  My  life,  therefore,  belongs  to  you,  and  I  give  it  into  your 
hands  in  swearing,  by  the  memory  of  my  dear  parents,  and 
especially  my  noble  and  proud-spirited  mother,  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette,  that  I  will  faithfully  and  truly  keep  the 
secret  of  my  parentage,  and  not  feel  myself  justified  in  re- 


WITHOUT    NAME   AND    EANK.  499 

vealing  it  to  the  world,  till  you,  the  Prince  de  Conde,  shall 
have  given  me  permission,  and  empowered  me  to  do  so." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Conde,  "for  I  am  now  unconcerned 
about  your  immediate  future.  General  Kleber  and  the 
French  republic  will  protect  you,  for  the  present,  from  the 
dangerous  pretender,  Count  Lille,  and,  in  God's  provi- 
dence, I  trust  there  will  come  a  day  when  France  will  be 
prepared  to  raise  the  son  of  its  kings  to  the  throne  which 
belongs  to  him.  Let  us  hope  for  this  day,  and  be  per- 
suaded that  I  shall  neglect  nothing  which  will  help  bring 
it  about.  And  now,  as  we  part,  I  bow  my  knee  to  you, 
my  young  king;  I  now  acknowledge  you  solemnly  as  the 
son  of  my  well-beloved  cousin,  King  Louis  XVI.,  and  the 
rightful  heir  of  the  throne  of  the  lilies.  May  the  spirits 
of  tfte  murdered  royal  couple,  may  God  and  the  ear  of  my 
king  take  note  of  the  oath  which  I  now  pronounce.  I 
swear  that  I  will  never  acknowledge  any  other  prince  as 
King  of  France,  so  long  as  you,  King  Louis  XVII.,  are 
among  the  living.  I  swear  that  if  I  ever  break  this  vow, 
and  acknowledge  another  King  of  France,  you,  Louis 
XVII.,  may  accuse  me  of  high-treason,  and  condemn  me 
to  the  death  which  a  traitor  deserves.  I  swear  that  I  will 
subject  myself  to  this  death-penalty  without  opposition 
and  complaint.  And  this  I  swear  by  Almighty  God,  and 
by  the  memory  of  your  royal  parents,  whose  spirits  are 
with  us  at  this  hour." 

"And  I,  Prince  de  Conde,  I  accept  your  oath,"  said 
Louis  Charles,  gravely.  "  I  go  away  now  into  exile,  but  I 
carry  your  oath  with  me  as  my  hope  for  the  future,  and 
may  God  grant  that  I  shall  never  be  compelled  to  remind 
you  of  it,  but  that  you  will  faithfully  and  truly  keep  it. 
Fare  you  well!  My  crown  rests  in  your  heart." 

"  And  in  these  papers,  sire.  Deliver  them  to  the  brave 
General  Kleber,  and  he  will  preserve  them  as  his  most 
sacred  and  cherished  possession." 

He  kissed  the  hand  of  the  prince,  which  was  reached  out 
for  the  papers,  and  then  hastened  to  summon  the  officer, 
who  was  waiting  in  the  adjoining  room  for  the  nephew  of 
General  Kleber,  having  no  suspicion  what  an  important 
mission  was  intrusted  to  him. 

But  General  Kleber  knew  the  secret  better,  and  although 


500  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

not  a  word  and  not  an  action  disclosed  it,  yet  the  gentle 
friendliness,  the  mild  look,  the  subdued  smile  with  which 
the  general  received  his  young  nephew  in  Mayence,  testi- 
fied that  he  was  familiar  with  the  secret,  and  knew  how  to 
guard  it. 

In  Mayence,  under  the  care  of  General  Kleber,  his 
nephew,  Louis,  as  he  called  him,  remained  during  the  sub- 
sequent time,  and  very  soon  gained  the  heart  of  his  uncle, 
and  was  his  inseparable  friend  by  day  and  by  night.  They 
slept  in  one  room,  they  ate  at  one  table.  The  nephew  ac- 
companied his  uncle  at  all  parades  and  military  exercises; 
and,  in  order  to  make  his  favorite  a  skilful  soldier,  the 
general  undertook  the  duties  of  teacher,  gave  him  instruc- 
tion in  the  art  of  war,  and  taught  him  the  more  familiar 
duties  of  a  soldier's  life.  The  nephew  comprehended 
readily,  and  pursued  zealously  the  studies  which  his  uncle 
assigned  him.  The  pains  and  sorrows  of  the  past  were 
forgotten,  and  only  the  recollections  of  his  happy  child- 
hood rested  silently  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  like  pearls 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

"When  shall  I  arise  from  this  estate?  When  will  the 
crown  of  the  future  be  linked  with  these  pleasant  recollec- 
tions of  the  past?"  These  were  the  questions  which  the 
growing  boy  repeated  to  himself  every  morning  and  every 
evening.  But  his  lips  never  uttered  them;  he  never  gave 
the  slightest  indication  that  he  was  any  thing  else  than  the 
nephew  of  General  Kleber.  The  French  garrison  of  May- 
ence considered  him  to  be  so,  and  no  one  thought  of  ask- 
ing whether  he  bore  any  other  name.  It  sufficed  that  he 
was  the  nephew  of  the  noble,  valiant,  and  heroic  General 
Kleber.  That  was  the  name  and  rank  of  the  little  prince. 


CHAPTEE   XXX. 

THE  BARON   DE   RICIIEMONT. 

THUS  passed  weeks,  months,  and  even  years,  and  on  the 
gloomy  horizon  of  France  arose  a  new  constellation,  and 
from  the  blood-spotted,  corpse-strewn  soil  of  the  French 
republic  sprang  an  armed  warrior — a  solitary  one! — but 


THE   BARON   DE   RICHEMONT.  501 

one  to  whom  millions  were  soon  to  bow,  and  who,  like  the 
divinity  of  battles,  was  to  control  the  destinies  of  nations 
and  of  princes.  This  one  solitary  man  was  General  Bona- 
parte, the  same  young  man  who  in  the  first  bloody  days  of 
the  French  Revolution  beheld  the  storm  at  the  Tuileries, 
and  expressed  his  regret  to  his  companion — the  actor 
Talma — that  the  king  did  not  command  his  soldiers  to 
mow  down  the  canaille  with  grape-shot.  The  young  lieu- 
tenant of  that  day,  who  had  been  the  friend  of  the  actor, 
dividing  his  loaf  and  his  dinner  with  him,  had  now  be- 
come General  Bonaparte.  And  this  general  was  serving 
the  same  people  which  as  a  lieutenant  he  had  wanted  to 
mow  down  with  grape-shot.  At  the  siege  of  Toulon,  in 
the  close  contests  with  the  allies  against  the  republic  and 
in  the  Italian  campaign  of  1794,  Bonaparte  had  so  distin- 
guished himself  that  the  eyes  of  the  French  government 
were  already  directed  to  him,  and  no  one  could  be  sur- 
prised at  the  action  of  General  Beauharnais'  widow,  the 
fair  Josephine,  in  giving  her  hand  to  the  young  and  ex- 
traordinary man.  This  marriage  had  not  only  brought 
happiness  to  Bonaparte,  but  it  satisfied  his  ambition. 
Josephine  was  the  friend  of  Barras  and  Tallien,  the  chief 
magistrates  of  the  republic  at  that  time,  and  through  her 
influence  the  young  Bonaparte  was  sent  to  Italy  to  assume 
the  chief  command  of  the  French  army  there.  A  general 
of  twenty-six  years  to  have  the  direction  of  an  army,  whose 
four  corps  were  commanded  by  Generals  Massena,  Auge- 
reau,  Serrurier,  and  La  Harpe!  The  father  of  Junot,  the 
late  Duke  de  Abrantes,  wrote  at  that  time  to  his  son,  who 
was  with  the  French  army  in  Italy :  "  Who  is  this  General 
Bonaparte?  Where  has  he  served?  Does  anybody  know 
any  thing  about  him?"  And  Junot,  who  was  then  the 
faithful  friend  and  the  admirer  of  Bonaparte,  replied  to 
his  father :  "  You  ask  me  who  General  Bonaparte  is.  I 
might  answer,  in  order  to  know  who  he  is,  you  must  be 
he.  I  can  only  say  to  you  that,  so  far  as  I  am  able  to 
judge  him,  he  is  one  of  those  men  with  whom  Nature 
groans,  and  only  brings  forth  in  a  century." 

Had  Junot  not  replied  to  his  father,  the  deeds  of  the 
young  general  would  soon  have  done  so.  Presently,  in  all 
France,  in  all  Italy,  yes,  in  all  Europe,  there  was  not  a 


502  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

man  who  could  ask,  "Who  is  General  Bonaparte?"  His 
name  was  in  every  mouth,  and  the  soldiers  adored  the  man 
who  had  stood  victoriously  at  their  head  at  Lodi  and  Milan, 
and  borne  the  banner  forward  amid  the  murderous  shower 
of  balls  at  the  bridge  of  Arcoli.  Diplomatists  and  states- 
men wondered  at  him  who  had  taken  Venice,  and  com- 
pelled proud  and  hated  Austria  to  make  peace  with  the 
French  republic,  which  had  brought  Marie  Antoinette  to 
the  scaffold.  The  republicans  and  the  Directory  of  the 
republic  feared  Bonaparte,  because  they  recognized  an 
enemy  of  the  republic  in  him,  and  dreaded  his  growing 
power  and  increasing  renown. 

On  this  account  General  Bonaparte  was  recalled  from 
the  Italian  army  after  peace  had  been  made  with  Austria, 
and  he  returned  to  Paris.  Still  he  was  so  feared  that  the 
Directory  of  the  republic,  in  order  to  remove  him,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  give  occupation  to  his  active  spirit  and 
his  splendid  abilities,  proposed  to  Bonaparte  to  go  with  an 
army  to  Egypt,  and  extend  the  glory  of  France  to  the 
distant  East. 

Bonaparte  entered  with  all  his  fiery  nature  into  this  idea 
which  Barras  and  Talleyrand  had  sought  to  inveigle  him 
into,  and  all  his  time,  his  thoughts,  and  his  energies  were 
directed  to  the  one  purpose,  to  fit  himself  out  with  every 
thing  that  should  be  needful  to  bring  to  a  victorious  end  a 
long  and  stubborn  war  in  a  foreign  land.  A  strong  fleet 
was  collected,  and  Bonaparte,  as  the  commander  of  the 
many  thousands  who  were  to  go  to  Egypt  under  him,  called 
to  his  aid  the  most  skilful,  valiant,  and  renowned  generals 
of  the  French  army. 

It  could  not  fail  that  one  of  the  first  and  most  eminent 
of  these  was  General  Kleber,  and,  of  course,  his  young  ad- 
jutant and  nephew  Louis  accompanied  him. 

On  the  19th  of  April,  1798,  the  French  fleet  left  the 
harbor  of  Toulon,  and  sailed  toward  the  East,  for,  as 
Bonaparte  said,  "  Only  in  the  Orient  are  great  realms  and 
great  deeds — in  the  Orient,  where  six  hundred  millions  of 
men  live." 

But  these  six  hundred  millions  have  no  army  such  as 
the  French  is,  no  commander  like  Bonaparte,  no  generals 
like  Murat,  Junot,  Desaix,  and,  above  all,  Kleber. 


THE    BARON    DE    RICHEMONT.  503 

Kleber  was  the  second  in  command.  He  shared  his 
perils,  he  shared  his  victories,  and  with  him  was  united 
his  nephew  Louis,  a  youth  of  fourteen  years,  who,  from 
his  tall,  slim  figure,  his  gravity,  and  his  ready  understand- 
ing, would  have  passed  at  least  for  a  youth  of  eighteen, 
and  who,  trained  in  the  school  of  misfortune,  belonged  to 
those  early-matured  natures  which  destiny  has  steeled,  that 
they  may  courageously  contend  with  and  gain  the  victory 
over  destruction. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  2d  of  July.  The  French 
army  had  disembarked,  and  stood  not  far  from  Alexandria, 
on  the  ancient  sacred  soil  of  Egypt.  Whatever  was  done 
must  be  done  quickly,  for  Nelson  was  approaching  with  a 
fleet,  prepared  to  contend  with  the  French  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Alexandria.  Should  the  city  not  be  taken  before 
the  arrival  of  the  English  fleet,  the  victory  would  be  doubt- 
ful. Bonaparte  knew  this  well.  "  Fortune  gives  us  three 
days'  time  at  the  most,"  cried  he,  "and  if  we  do  not  use 
them  we  are  lost!  " 

But  he  did  use  them!  With  fearful  rapidity  the  disem- 
barkation of  the  troops  was  effected ;  with  fearful  rapidity 
the  French  army  arranged  itself  on  Egyptian  soil  in  three 
divisions,  under  Morand,  Bon,  and  Kleber.  Above  them 
all  was  he  whose  head  had  conceived  the  gigantic  under- 
taking, he  whose  heroic  spirit  comprehended  the  whole. 
This  was  Bonaparte. 

After  inspecting  all  the  army  and  issuing  his  orders,  he 
rode  up  the  hill  in  company  with  hi?  staff  to  the  pillar  of 
Pompey,  in  order  to  observe  from  that  point  the  course 
of  events.  The  army  was  advancing  impetuously,  and 
soon  the  city  built  by  Alexander  the  Great  must  open  its 
gates  to  his  successor,  Bonaparte  the  Great. 

After  a  short  respite,  the  army  advanced  farther  into  the 
land  of  the  pyramids.  "Remember,"  cried  Bonaparte  to 
his  soldiers,  pointing  to  those  monuments — "remember 
that  forty  centuries  look  down  upon  you." 

And  the  pyramids  of  the  great  plain  of  Cairo  beheld  the 
glorious  deeds  and  victories  of  the  French  army,  beheld 
the  overthrow  of  the  Egyptian  host.  The  Nile  murmured 
with  its  blood-red  waves  the  death-song  of  the  brave  Mame- 
lukes, and  the  "  forty  centuries"  which  looked  down  from 


504  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

the  pyramids  were  obliterated  by  the  glorious  victories  that 
Bonaparte  gained  at  the  foot  of  those  sacred  monuments. 

A  new  epoch  was  to  begin.  The  old  epoch  was  buried 
for  Egypt,  and  out  of  the  ruins  of  past  centuries  a  new 
Egypt  was  to  be  born,  an  Egypt  which  was  to  serve  France 
and  be  tributary  to  it  as  a  vassal. 

This  was  Bonaparte's  plan,  and  he  did  every  thing  to 
bring  it  to  completion.  He  passed  from  battle  to  battle, 
from  -victory  to  victory,  and  after  conquering  Egypt  and 
taking  up  his  residence  in  Cairo,  he  at  once  began  to  or- 
ganize the  newly-won  country,  and  to  introduce  to  the  idle 
and  listless  East  the  culture  of  the  earnest  and  progressive 
West.  But  Egypt  would  not  accept  the  treasures  of 
culture  at  the  hand  of  its  conqueror.  It  rose  again  and 
again  in  rebellion  against  the  power  that  held  it  down, 
and  hurled  its  flaming  torches  of  revenge  against  the  hated 
enemy.  A  token  of  this  may  be  seen  in  the  dreadful  re- 
volt at  Cairo,  which  began  in  the  night  of  the  20th  of 
October,  and,  after  days  of  violence,  ended  with  the  cruel 
cutting  down  of  six  thousand  Mamelukes.  A  proof  of  it 
may  be  seen  in  the  constantly  renewed  attacks  of  swarms 
of  Bedouins  and  Mamelukes  on  the  French  army.  These 
hordes  advanced  even  to  the  gates  of  Cairo,  and  terrified 
the  population,  which  had  at  last  taken  refuge  beneath  the 
foot  of  the  conqueror.  But  Bonaparte  succeeded  in  sub- 
jugating the  hostile  Bedouin  tribes,  as  he  had  already  sub- 
jugated the  population  of  the  cities.  He  sent  one  of  his 
adjutants,  General  Croisier,  with  a  corps  of  brave  soldiers, 
into  the  desert  to  meet  the  emir  of  the  hostile  tribes,  and 
Croisier  won  respect  for  the  commands  of  his  general.  He 
succeeded  in  taking  captive  the  whole  body.  A  fearful 
sentence  was  inflicted  on  them.  Before  the  eyes  of  their 
wives,  their  children,  and  their  mothers,  all  the  men  of 
the  tribe,  more  than  five  hundred  in  number,  were  killed 
and  their  heads  put  into  sacks.  The  howling  and  weeping 
women  and  children  were  driven  to  Cairo.  Many  perished 
of  hunger  on  the  road,  or  died  beneath  the  sabre-blows  of 
their  enemies;  but  more  than  a  thousand  succeeded  in 
reaching  Cairo.  They  were  obliged  to  encamp  upon  the 
great  square  El  Bekir,  in  the  heart  of  Cairo,  till  the 
donkeys  arrived  which  bore  the  dreadful  spoils  of  victory 


THE   BARON    DE   RICHEMONT.  505 

in  blood-dripping  bags  upon  their  backs.  The  whole 
population  of  Cairo  was  summoned  to  this  gigantic  square, 
and  was  obliged  to  look  on  while  the  sacks  were  opened  and 
the  bloody  heads  rolled  out  upon  the  sacred  soil  of  Egypt. 

After  this  time  quiet  reigned  for  a  season.  Horror  had 
brought  the  conquered  into  subjection,  and  Bonaparte 
could  continue  his  victorious  course.  He  withdrew  to 
Syria,  taking  with  him  Kleber  and  Kleber's  young  adju- 
tant, the  little  Louis.  He  saw  the  horrors  of  war ;  he  was 
there,  the  son  of  the  Kings  of  France,  Avhen  the  army  of 
the  republic  conquered  the  cities  El  Arisli  and  Gaza;  he 
took  part  by  the  side  of  Kleber  in  the  storming  of  Jaffa. 
He  was  there  when  the  captured  Jaffa  had  to  open  its  gates 
to  the  victors.  He  was  there  when,  in  the  great  caravan- 
sary, four  thousand  Turkish  soldiers  grounded  their  arms 
and  surrendered  themselves  as  prisoners,  after  receiving 
the  promise  that  their  lives  should  be  spared.  He  was 
there,  too,  the  son  of  Marie  Antoinette,  when  the  unfor- 
tunates were  driven  down  to  the  sea-coast  and  shot,  in 
order  that  their  enemies  might  be  rid  of  them.  He  was 
there,  the  son  of  Louis  XVI.,  when  Bonaparte  visited  the 
pest-house  in  Jaffa ;  he  walked  through  the  sick-rooms  at 
the  side  of  his  uncle  Kleber,  who  noticed  how  the  face  of 
the  young  man,  which  had  so  often  been  calm  in  meeting 
death  on  the  battle-field  or  in  the  storm  of  assault,  now 
quivered,  and  the  paleness  of  death  swept  over  his  cheeks. 

"What  was  the  matter,  my  son?"  asked  Kleber,  as  he 
returned  home  from  this  celebrated  visit  to  the  pest-house. 
"  Why  did  you  turn  pale  all  at  once,  Louis?" 

"  General, "  responded  Louis,  perplexed,  "  I  know  not 
how  to  answer." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  gone  with  me  to  the  hospital," 
said  Kleber,  shaking  his  head.  "You  know  I  did  not 
want  you  to  go  at  first;  but  you  insisted  on  it,  and  begged 
and  implored  so  long  that  at  last  I  had  to  yield  and  let  you 
accompany  us.  But,  I  confess  it  myself,  it  was  a  dreadful 
sight,  these  sick  people  with  their  swollen  bodies  covered 
with  blood  and  running  sores.  I  understand  now  why  you 
trembled  and  turned  pale — you  were  afraid  of  this  dreadful 
sickness?" 

"No,  general,"  answered  Louis,  softly — "no,  I  have  no 


506  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

fear.  Did  you  not  notice  that  I  sprang  forward  and  as- 
sisted General  Bonaparte,  when  he  lifted  up  the  poor  sick 
man  who  lay  on  the  floor  before  the  door,  and  that  I  helped 
carry  him  into  the  room?" 

"  I  saw  it,  Louis,  and  I  was  much  pleased  with  your 
courage,  and  was  therefore  surprised  afterward  when  you 
turned  pale  and  trembled,  and  I  saw  tears  in  your  eyes. 
"What  agitated  you  all  at  once  so  much?" 

The  young  man  slowly  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
Kleber  with  his  great  blue  eyes.  "  General,"  he  said, 
softly,  "  I  myself  do  not  know  what  agitated  me  so  much. 
We  were  both  standing  before  the  bed  of  a  sick  man,  to 
whom  I  handed  a  pitcher  of  water  which  he  begged  for 
earnestly.  He  fixed  his  great  eyes  upon  me,  and  his 
quivering  lips  murmured:  'God  bless  you!  all  saints  and 
angels  protect  you!'  As  he  spoke  these  words,  there  re- 
sounded in  my  heart  the  echo  of  a  time  long  since  past. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  suddenly  a  dark  curtain  parted,  and 
I  looked  as  in  a  dream  at  a  wondrous,  brilliant  spectacle. 
I  saw  a  beautiful  and  dignified  woman  of  princely  figure, 
of  noble,  majestic  nature.  With  her  I  saw  two  children, 
a  girl  and  a  boy,  whom  she  led  by  the  hand,  and  with 
whom  she  walked  through  a  long  hall  which  was  filled  with 
rows  of  beds.  And  as  she  walked  there,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sun  lightened  up  the  dismal  hall,  and  illumined  the  pale 
faces  of  the  sick  ones.  They  raised  themselves  up  in  their 
beds  and  extended  their  thin,  emaciated  hands  to  the  tall 
lady,  and  thanked  her  with  earnest  blessings  for  her  visit 
and  her  comforting  words.  There  was  only  one  of  the 
patients  who  did  not  rise,  but  lay  stiff  upon  his  bed  and 
moaned  and  sighed  and  whispered  unintelligible  words, 
which  no  one  heeded,  because  the  attention  of  all  was  fixed 
upon  the  great  visitor.  But  the  boy  who  was  walking  by 
the  side  of  the  tall  lady  had  understood  the  sobs  of  the  sick 
one.  He  left  his  mother,  took  the  jug  which  stood  upon 
a  table  between  two  beds,  filled  a  glass  with  water  from  it, 
and  held  it  to  the  dry,  quivering  lips  of  the  sick  one.  He 
drank  greedily,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  boy  and 
lisped  the  words:  'God  bless  you!  all  saints  and  angels 
protect  you!'  And  all  the  people  repeated  aloud:  'God 
bless  you,  all  saints  and  angels  protect  you!'  The  digni- 


THE    BARON   DE    RICHEMONT.  507 

fied  lady  stooped  with  a  heavenly  smile  to  her  son,  pressed 
a  tender  kiss  upon  his  golden  locks,  and  repeated  the  same 
words  aloud.  This,  general,  was  the  fantasy  which  sud- 
denly appeared  before  my  eyes  when  the  patient  spoke 
those  words  to-day.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  perceived  all 
at  once  a  long-silent  song  of  home.  I  heard  the  wonder- 
ful voice  of  the  exalted  lady  who  spoke  those  words.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  felt  the  kiss  which  she  then  imprinted 
on  the  head  of  the  five-year-old  boy,  felt  it  to  my  inmost 
heart,  and  it  glowed  there  with  the  fire  of  an  undying  love, 
and  shook  my  whole  being,  and  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 
You  will  not  chide  me  for  that,  general,  for  those  were  the 
lips  of  my  mother  who  pressed  that  kiss  of  blessing  on  her 
unhappy  son." 

He  ceased,  tears  choked  his  utterance,  and,  as  if  ashamed 
of  his  deep  emotion,  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

General  Kleber  turned  away  too,  and  put  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  as  though  a  film  had  come  over  them.  Then, 
after  a  long  pause  he  gently  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoul- 
der of  the  young  man,  who  was  still  sitting  with  covered 
face. 

"  Such  memories  are  holy,"  he  said,  "  and  I  honor  them, 
my  dear,  faithful  son.  May  the  blessing  which  then  fell 
from  the  lips  of  a  woman  whom  I  too  knew  and  honored, 
but  whose  name  may  never  be  spoken  between  us,  may  it 
be  fulfilled  to  you !  May  angels  and  saints  protect  you 
when  men  shall  no  longer  have  the  power,  and  when  fate 
shall  separate  you  from  those  who  have  devoted  their  love 
and  fidelity  to  you!" 

The  youth  let  his  hands  fall  from  his  face,  and  looked  at 
the  general  with  a  startled,  searching  glance. 

"What  do  you  mean,  uncle?  You  do  not  mean  to  say 
that— 

"  That  we  must  part?  Yes,  my  dear  nephew,  that  is 
what  I  must  say,"  interrupted  Kleber,  sadly.  "  This  word 
has  long  been  burning  in  my  soul,  and  it  is  necessary  that 
I  speak  it.  Yes,  we  must  part,  Louis." 

"  Why,  oh  why?"  asked  Louis,  bitterly.  "  Why  will  you 
too  drive  me  away?  You,  the  only  one  who  loves  me  a 
little!" 

"  Exactly  because  I  love  you— exactly  for  that  reason 
33 


508  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

must  I  separate  myself  from  you.  Since  we  came  to  Egypt 
you  have  been  sickly,  your  cheeks  have  become  pale.  The 
fulness  of  your  limbs  has  gone,  and  the  dry  and  hard  cough 
that  troubles  you  every  morning  has  long  made  me  anxious, 
as  you  know.  On  that  account,  after  all  the  appliances  of 
my  physician  failed,  I  .applied,  as  you  know,  to  the  phy- 
sician of  the  commanding  general,  to  Corvisart,  and  he  has 
subjected  you  to  a  thorough  examination." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Louis,  thoughtfully,  "he  has  investi- 
gated me  with  the  carefulness  of  a  merchant  who  is  about 
to  buy  a  slave  and  means  to  test  him.  He  made  a  hearing- 
trumpet  of  his  ear  and  laid  it  on  my  breast,  and  listened 
while  I  had  to  breathe  as  if  I  were  a  volcano.  He  put  his 
ear  to  my  heart,  he  told  me  that  his  father  had  been  phy- 
sician at  the  French  court,  and  that  the  murdered  queen 
had  a  great  deal  of  confidence  in  him,  and  then  he  won- 
dered that  my  heart  beat  so  violently  while  he  told  me 
this." 

"  And  the  result  of  all  these  investigations  is,  that  you 
must  return  to  Europe,  Louis,"  said  Kleber,  sadly.  "  Cor- 
visart had  declared  it  an  unavoidable  necessity  for  your  con- 
stitution, and  the  command  of  the  physician  must  be 
obeyed  as  if  it  were  the  command  of  God.  You  cannot 
endure  the  climate  of  Egypt,  so  says  Corvisart,  and  if  your 
life  is  not  to  be  shortened  and  you  to  be  made  a  perpetual 
invalid,  you  must  return  to  Europe  as  quickly  as  possible, 
for  only  there  will  you  recover  and  grow  strong.  You  see 
therefore,  Louis,  that  I  must  separate  from  you,  although 
it  is  a  sore  thing  for  me  to  do,  for  I  love  you  as  my  own 
son,  and  I  have  no  one  in  the  world  who  is  nearly  related 
to  me." 

"And  I,  whom  else  have  I  in  the  world?"  asked  Louis, 
bitterly.  "Who  has  interest  in  me  excepting  you?  Ah, 
general,  do  not  drive  me  from  you.  Believe  me,  it  is  bet- 
ter for  me  if  for  a  few  short  and  happy  years  I  live  at  your 
side,  and  then  breathe  my  last  sigh  in  your  faithful  and 
tender  arms,  than  if  I  have  to  wander  solitary  and  friend- 
less through  the  strange,  cold  world,  where  no  one  loves 
me,  and  where  I  shall  always  be  surrounded  by  enemies,  or 
by  those  who  are  indifferent.  It  may  be  that  my  body  will 
gain  health  and  strength  in  the  air  of  Europe,  but  my 


THE    BARON    DE    RICHEMONT.  509 

heart  will  always  be  sick  there,  for  it  will  lose  its  home 
when  it  shall  have  lost  you,  my  fatherly  friend." 

General  Kleber  slowly  shook  his  head.  "  In  youth  one 
sorrows  and  forgets  it  quickly." 

"  General,  do  you  say  that  to  me,  after  seeing  me  weep 
in  the  hospital  because  the  word  of  a  dying  man  called  back 
the  recollection  of  my  earliest  childhood?  Oh,  believe  me, 
my  heart  forgets  its  sorrows  never,  and  if  I  must  return  to 
France,  to  Paris,  it  will  seem  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  to 
be  climbing  the  hill  of  Calvary  with  bloody  feet  to  reach 
the  top  where  I  might  perish  on  the  cross.  For,  believe 
me,  general,  my  whole  life  will  be  nothing  but  such  a 
wandering  through  scenes  of  pain  if  you  drive  me  from  the 
refuge  that  your  love  has  offered  me.  Leave  me  here,  let 
me  live  in  secrecy  and  silence  beneath  the  pinions  of  your 
love,  and  do  not  believe  what  the  physicians  tell  you. 
Man's  life  lies  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  if  He  will  sustain 
it,  it  is  as  safe  in  the  deserts  of  Egypt  as  in  Paris,  the  cap- 
ital of  the  world." 

"  Because  God  will  sustain  your  life,  Louis,  for  that  very 
reason,  He  instructs  me,  through  the  voice  of  the  phy- 
sician, what  my  duty  is,  bids  me  conquer  my  own  grief, 
and  send  the  son  of  my  heart  to  his  distant  home.  No, 
Louis,  it  is  a  decided  thing,  we  must  part ;  you  must  re- 
turn to  France." 

"  And  if  it  is  true,"  asked  Louis,  bitterly,  "  if  I  am  then 
really  to  return  to  France,  why  must  we  pai*W  Why  must 
I  return  without  you?  Why,  if  you  really  love  me,  do  you 
not  accompany  me?  I  heard  you  say  yesterday  that  several 
ships,  with  a  part  of  our  troops,  were  to  return  to  France. 
Why,  then,  can  you  not  go  back  with  me?" 

"Why?"  asked  Kleber,  sadly.  "I  will  tell  you,  Louis: 
because  Bonaparte  will  not  allow  it.  Listen,  my  son,  I 
will  communicate  a  secret  to  you:  there  has  news  come 
within  the  last  few  days,  the  first  that  we  have  received  for 
ten  months.  The  newspapers  which  have  arrived  bring 
very  unwelcome  intelligence ;  they  inform  us  that  all  the 
advantages  gained  in  Italy  by  the  French  army  have  been 
lost — that  France  is  arrayed  against  Austria,  Spain,  and 
all  the  European  powers — that  the  French  Government  is 
threatened  by  internal  factions,  which  threaten  to  bring 


510  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

back  the  reign  of  terror.  I  watched  Bonaparte's  face  as 
he  read  these  papers,  and  I  saw  there  what  he  was  resolved 
to  do.  He  will,  as  soon  as  he  shall  gain  one  more  great 
victory,  leave  Egypt  and  return  to  France." 

"  He  will  not  return  without  you,  the  faithfulest  and 
boldest  of  his  generals.  You  know  well  that  you  are  called 
the  right-hand  man  of  Bonaparte." 

"  Bonaparte  means  to  show  the  world  that  he  is  not  only 
the  head,  but  the  right  arm  too,  the  heart,  the  foot,  the 
soul  of  the  French  army !  And  because  he  means  to  show 
this,  he  will  return  alone  to  France;  only  a  few  of  his 
faithful  subordinates  will  accompany  him;  the  men  who 
might  even  oppose  him,  and  put  hinderances  in  the  path 
of  his  growing  ambition,  will  remain  here.  Now  do  you 
believe  that  Bonaparte  will  select  me  to  accompany  him?" 

The  young  man  let  his  head  fall  slowly  on  his  breast. 
"  No,"  he  said,  softly,  "no,  I  do  not  believe  he  will." 

"  And  I  know  he  will  not,"  replied  Kleber.  "  I  shall  re- 
main here  in  Egypt,  and  die  here !  Hush !  Do  not  con- 
tradict me ;  there  are  presentiments  which  do  not  mislead 
us,  and  which  God  sends  to  us,  that  we  may  shape  our 
course  by  them,  and  set  our  house  in  order.  My  house  is 
set  in  order — my  will  is  made ;  I  have  given  it  to  Bona- 
parte, and  he  has  solemnly  sworn  to  carry  it  into  execution 
in  all  respects.  Only  one  care  is  left  me — to  provide  for 
your  immediate  future,  and  to  arrange  that  you  may  reach 
France." 

"You  adhere  to  this?"  asked  Louis,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  I  abide  by  this;  you  must  not  run  away  from  your 
own  future,  and  this  will,  1  trust,  be  a  brilliant  one.  All 
tokens  indicate  that  France  is  wearied  with  the  republic, 
and  that  it  is  perhaps  nearly  ready  to  restore  the  throne  of 
the  Lilies.  Young  man,  shall  this  reestablished  throne 
fall  into  the  hands  of  that  man  who  contributed  so  much 
to  its  downfall — who  was  the  calumniator,  the  secret  enemy 
of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette?  Would  you  consent  that  the 
Count  de  Provence  should  be  King  of  France?" 

"  No,  never!"  cried  Louis,  with  blazing  eyes  and  flaming 
face.  "That  never  can  be;  for,  before  the  brother  of 
Louis  XVI.  can  ascend  the  throne  as  Louis  XVIII.,  his 
rightful  predecessor,  Louis  XVII.,  must  have  died." 


THE   BARON   DE    RICHEMONT.  511 

"  He  has  died,  and  the  French  government  has  placed  in 
its  archives  the  certificate  of  the  death  of  Louis  Charles 
Capet,  signed  by  the  physicians  and  the  servants  of  the 
Temple.  My  son,  in  order  to  prevent  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence acknowledging  this  certificate  as  genuine,  you  must 
be  prepared  to  place  before  him  and  the  world  other  testi- 
monials that  Louis  XVII.  is  not  dead.  This  is  a  sacred 
offering  which  you  must  make  to  the  manes  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Marie  Antoinette,  even  if  the  stake  were  not  a 
throne  and  a  crown!" 

"You  are  right,"  cried  Louis,  with  enthusiasm,  "my 
whole  life  shall  be  devoted  to  this  sacred  trust;  it  shall 
have  no  other  aim  than  this:  to  avenge  Marie  Antoinette 
of  the  most  cruel  of  her  enemies,  the  Count  de  Provence, 
and  to  place  the  son,  whom,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, she  acknowledged  as  King  of  France,  on  the  throne 
which  really  belongs  to  him,  and  not  to  the  Count  de  Pro- 
vence !  You  are  right,  general,  I  must  return  to  Europe ;  I 
must  carry  to  France  the  papers  which  show  that  Louis 
XVII.  did  not  die  in  the  Temple,  but  was  released.  I  am 
ready  to  go,  and  to  endure  the  pain  of  parting  from  you." 

"  May  God  grant  that  we  may  both  be  compensated  for 
this  pain!"  replied  Kleber,  embracing  the  young  man  ten- 
derly. "  There  remain  to  us  a  few  weeks  to  be  together. 
Let  us  use  them  so  that  they  shall  afford  us  many  cheerful 
recollections.  Bonaparte  will  not  leave  Egypt  before 
adding  one  more  glory  to  his  reputation.  He  does  not 
mean  to  return  to  France  as  the  conquered,  but  as  the 
conqueror!" 

General  Kleber  was  right.  He  knew  Bonaparte  suf- 
ficiently well  to  be  able  to  read  his  countenance;  he  under- 
stood the  dumb  speech  of  the  Ccesar  of  the  age. 

Bonaparte  wanted  to  gain  one  great  battle,  in  order  to 
return  to  Europe  with  glory.  He  gained  it  at  Aboukir, 
winning  the  day  in  a  contest  with  the  united  Turks  and 
English — one  of  the  most  signal  victories  that  he  had  ever 
won.  Eight  thousand  prisoners  were  taken  on  that  21st 
of  July,  1799.  Four  thousand  lay  dead  upon  the  battle- 
field, and  as  many  were  sunk  in  the  captured  and  destroyed 
ships  of .  the  English.  On  the  day  after  the  battle  the 
foam  of  the  waves  was  tipped  with  blood  along  the  shore. 


512  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Bonaparte  himself  conducted  the  whole  battle,  and  per- 
sonally gained  the  victory.  At  the  moment  when  the  con- 
test seemed  doubtful,  he  assumed  command  of  a  cavalry 
regiment,  advanced  upon  the  Turkish  pacha,  and  by  his 
heroic  courage  kindled  all  the  army  afresn.  Even  General 
Kleber  could  not  disguise  his  admiration  of  the  hero  of 
Aboukir;  and  when,  at  the  close  of  the  battle,  he  met 
Bonaparte  on  the  field,  he  embraced  him  with  passionate 
tenderness.  "General,"  he  cried,  with  enthusiasm,  "you 
are  as  great  as  the  world;  but  the  world  is  not  great 
enough  for  you!"  * 

The  victory  that  Bonaparte  desired  was  thus  won,  and 
he  could  return  with  honor  to  France.  He  made  secret 
preparations  for  his  journey  thither,  fitting  up  two  ships, 
which  were  to  carry  him  and  his  companions.  The  army 
was  to  hear  of  his  departure  only  after  he  had  gone;  but, 
much  as  he  desired  to  keep  the  thing  secret,  there  were 
some  who  had  to  know  of  it,  and  among  them,  happily,  was 
General  Kleber.  Bonaparte  had  chosen  him  as  his  suc- 
cessor, and  therefore  he  must  be  informed  respecting  the 
condition  of  affairs  before  the  head  of  the  army  should 
withdraw.  On  the  same  day  when  this  communication 
took  place,  Kleber  repaired  to  General  Desaix,  who 
was  his  intimate  friend,  and  from  whom  he  learned  that 
he  was  to  be  one  of  Bonaparte's  companions  on  the  return. 
The  two  generals  had  a  prolonged  secret  interview,  and  at 
the  close  of  it  they  both  went  to  Kleber's  house,  and  en- 
tered the  room  of  his  adjutant  Louis.  General  Desaix 
bowed  with  great  deference  to  the  young  man,  who,  blush- 
ing at  the  honor  which  so  distinguished  a  general  paid 
him,  extended  his  hand  to  him.  Desaix  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  it,  and  from  his  eyes,  unused  to  tears,  there  fell  a 
drop  upon  the  young  man's  hand. 

"General,"  cried  Louis,  in  amazement,  "what  are  you 
doing?" 

"  I  am  paying  my  homage  to  misfortune  and  to  the  past," 
said  Desaix,  solemnly,  "  and  the  tear  which  I  drop  on  your 
hand  is  the  seal  of  my  fidelity  and  silence  in  the  future. 
Young  man,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  cherish  your  secret 
in  my  heart  as  a  hallowed  treasure,  and  will  defend  with 

*Denon,  MSmoires,  vol.  1.,  p.  849. 


THE    BARON    DE    RICHEMONT.  513 

my  life's  blood  the  papers  which  your  uncle,  General  Kle- 
ber,  has  intrusted  to  my  care  this  day.  I  am  a  soldier  of 
the  republic,  I  have  pledged  my  fidelity  to  her,  and  must 
and  shall  keep  it.  I  cannot  become  a  partisan;  but  I  shall 
always  be  the  protector  of  misfortune,  and  a  helper  in  time 
of  need.  Trust  me  in  this,  and  accept  me  as  your  friend." 

"  I  do  accept  you,  general,"  said  Louis,  gently,  "and  if 
I  do  not  promise  to  love  you  just  as  tenderly  as  I  love  my 
uncle,  General  Kleber,  who  has  been  to  me  father,  brother, 
and  protector,  and  to  whom  I  owe  every  thing,  yet,  I  can 
assure  you,  that,  after  him,  there  is  no  one  whom  I  will 
love  as  I  shall  you,  and  there  is  no  one  in  Europe  who  can 
contend  with  you  for  my  love.  I  am  very  poor  in  friends, 
and  yet  I  feel  that  my  heart  is  rich  in  love  that  no  one  de- 
sires now." 

"  Preserve  that  possession  well,  my  son,"  said  Kleber,  as 
he  took  leave  of  his  son,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of 
the  young  man.  "  Preserve  your  heart  tender  and  loving, 
for  if  Fate  is  just,  it  may  one  day  be  for  the  advantage  of 
a  whole  nation  that  you  are  so,  and  the  heart  of  the  man 
be  the  mediator  between  the  people  and  its  king!  Fare- 
well, my  son ;  we  see  each  other  to-day  for  the  last  time,  for 
in  this  very  hour  you  will  go  to  your  ship  with  Desaix.  It 
may  be  that  the  ships  will  sail  this  very  night,  and  if  so, 
well!  A  quick  and  unlooked-for  separation  mitigates  the 
pains  of  parting.  You  will  soon  have  overcome  them,  and 
when  you  reach  Paris,  the  past  will  sink  behind  you  into 
the  sea." 

"Never,  oh,  never!"  cried  Louis,  with  emotion.  "I 
shall  never  forget  my  benefactor,  my  second  father!" 

"  My  son,  one  easily  forgets  in  Paris,  and  especially  when 
he  goes  thither  for  the  purpose  of  creating  a  new  future 
out  of  the  ruins  of  the  past!  But  I  shall  never  forget  you ; 
and  if  my  presentiment  should  not  deceive  me,  and  I 
should  soon  die,  you  will  learn  after  my  death  that  I  have 
loved  you  as  a  son.  Now  go,  and  I  say  to  you,  as  another 
loved  voice  once  said  to  you,  and  as  the  sick  and  the  dying 
once  repeated  it  to  you,  'God  bless  you!  All  saints  and 
angels  protect  you!' " 

They  remained  locked  in  their  tender  embrace,  and  then 
parted — never  to  meet  again ! 


514  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

That  very  night,  before  the  morning  began  to  dawn, 
General  Desaix  started,  accompanied  by  his  adjutant  Louis, 
and  a  few  servants.  Their  first  goal  was  Alexandria, 
whither  the  command  of  General  Bonaparte  summoned 
them  and  a  few  others. 

The  proposed  journey  of  the  commanding  general  was 
still  a  carefully  concealed  secret,  and  the  divan  in  Cairo 
had  merely  been  informed  that  Bonaparte  was  planning  to 
undertake  a  short  journey  in  the  Delta. 

On  the  22d  of  August,  1799,  an  hour  after  midnight, 
two  French  frigates  left  the  harbor  of  Alexandria.  On 
board  of  one  of  them  was  Bonaparte,  the  emperor  of  the 
future ; — on  the  other  was  Louis  Charles,  the  king  of  the 
past.  Nameless  and  unknown,  the  descendant  of  the  mon- 
archs  of  France,  with  his  sixteen  years,  returned  to  France 
— to  France,  that  seemed  no  longer  to  remember  its 
past,  its  kings,  and  to  have  no  thoughts,  no  love,  no  ad- 
miration for  aught  excepting  that  new,  brilliant  constella- 
tion which  had  arisen  over  France — Bonaparte. 

He  had  returned  from  Egypt  to  regain  Italy,  but  he 
found  other  work  awaiting  him  in  Paris.  This  he  brought 
to  completion  with  the  energy  and  boldness  which  charac- 
terized all  his  dealings.  By  a  prompt  stroke  he  put  an  end 
to  the  constitution  which  had  prevailed  till  then,  abro- 
gated the  Convention  and  the  Council  of  Five  Hundred, 
and  gave  the  French  republic  a  new  constitution,  putting 
at  the  head  of  the  government  three  consuls,  Sieyes,  Eoger 
Ducos,  and  himself.  But  these  three  consuls  were  intended 
to  be  a  mere  transition,  a  mere  step  forward  in  the  victori- 
ous march  of  Bonaparte.  After  a  few  weeks  they  were 
superseded,  and  Bonaparte  became  the  First  Consul  and 
the  head  of  France. 

On  the  25th  of  December,  1799,  France  hailed  General 
Bonaparte  as  the  First  Consul  of  the  French  republic.  A  new 
century  was  dawning,  and  with  the  beginning  of  this  new 
century  the  gates  of  the  Tuileries,  the  deserted  palace  of 
kings,  opened  to  a  new  possessor.  Bonaparte,  the  First  Con- 
sul, took  up  his  residence  there ;  and  in  the  first  spring  of  the 
new  century  the  consul,  accompanied  by  Josephine,  removed 
to  St.  Cloud  for  summer  quarters.  The  park  of  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette  was  given  by  the  French  nation  to  the  First 


THE   BARON    DE    RICHEMONT.  515 

Consul;  and  in  the  apartments  where  the  queen  with  her 
son  Louis  Charles  and  her  daughter  Theresa  once  dwelt, 
Josephine,  with  her  son  Eugene  and  her  daughter  Hor- 
tense,  now  abode. 

"I  would  I  had  remained  in  Egypt,"  sighed  the  dauphin 
often,  when  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  apartment  he 
surrendered  himself  to  his  recollections  and  dreams.  "  It 
had  been  better  to  die  young  in  a  foreign  land,  while  all 
the  stars  of  hope  were  beaming  above  me,  than  to  protract 
a  miserable,  obscure  life  here,  and  see  all  the  stars  fade  out 
one  by  one!" 

Yes,  the  stars  of  hope  were  paling  one  by  one  for  the  son 
of  King  Louis.  No  one  thought  of  him,  no  one  believed 
in  him.  He  had  died  in  the  Temple,  that  was  all  that  any 
one  wanted  to  know.  The  dead  was  lamented  by  all,  the 
living  would  have  been  unwelcome  to  any.  He  had  died 
and  been  buried,  little  King  Louis  XVII.,  and  no  one 
spoke  of  him  more. 

The  only  subject  of  men's  talk  was  the  glory  and  great- 
ness of  the  First  Consul.  The  beauty  and  grace  of  Jose- 
phine were  celebrated  in  the  same  halls  which  had  once 
resounded  with  the  praises  of  fair  Queen  Marie  Antoinette. 
The  half  million  lovers  who  had  once  bowed  to  Marie  were 
now  devoted  to  Josephine,  and  paid  their  homage  to  her 
with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which  they  had  before 
worshipped  the  queen.  The  son  of  the  general  who  once 
had  given  the  oath  of  fidelity  to  King  Louis  XVI.,  the  son 
of  General  Beauharnais,  is  now  the  adopted  son  of  the  ruler 
of  France ;  while  the  son  of  the  king  must  secrete  him- 
self and  remain  without  name,  rank,  and  title.  It  is  his 
good  fortune  that  Desaix  is  there  to  pity  the  forsaken  one, 
and  to  give  him  a  place  in  his  home  and  his  heart.  No  one 
else  knows  him;  he  is  the  adjutant  of  General  Desaix, 
that  is  his  only  rank  and  title. 

But  he  still  remained  the  nephew  of  General  Kleber, 
who  had  been  left  in  Egypt,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  the 
century,  gained  a  decisive  victory  at  Heliopolis  over  the 
Turks  and  Mamelukes.  He  remained  the  nephew  of  Gen- 
eral Kleber,  and  at  the  end  of  the  year  1800  the  frigate 
1'Aigle,  on  its  return  from  Egypt,  brought  a  great  packet 
for  General  Desaix.  It  contained  many  papers  of  value, 


516  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

many  rolls  of  gold-pieces,  besides  gems  and  pearls.  But 
it  also  contained  a  sealed  black  document  directed  to  the 
adjutant  of  General  Desaix.  This  document  contained  the 
will  of  Kleber,  commander-in-chief  of  the  French  army  in 
Egypt.  He  had  given  it  to  General  Menou,  together  with 
his  papers  and  valuables,  with  the  intimation  that  directly 
after  his  death  they  should  all  be  sent  to  General  Desaix  in 
France.  General  Menou  followed  this  instruction,  for  Kle- 
ber was  dead.  The  murderous  bullet  of  a  Mameluke  killed 
him  on  the  14th  of  June,  1800.  His  will  was  the  last 
evidence  of  his  love  for  his  nephew  Louis,  whom  he  desig- 
nated as  his  only  heir,  and  Kleber  was  rich  through  in- 
herited wealth  as  well  as  the  spoils  of  war. 

But  Louis  Charles  took  no  satisfaction,  and  it  made  no 
impression  on  him,  when  Desaix  informed  him  that  he  was 
the  possessor  of  a  million.  "  A  million !  What  shall  I  do 
with  it?"  answered  Louis,  sadly.  "  Were  it  a  million  sol- 
diers, and  I  might  put  myself  at  their  head  and  with  them 
storm  the  Tuileries  and  make  my  entrance  into  St.  Cloud, 
I  should  consider  myself  fortunate.  But  what  advantage 
to  me  are  a  million  of  francs?  I  can  begin  nothing  with 
them ;  I  should  have  to  establish  a  store  and  perhaps  have 
the  custom  of  the  First  Consul  of  the  republic!" 

"Hush!  young  man,  hush!"  replied  Desaix,  "you  are 
bitter  and  sad,  and  I  understand  it,  for  the  horizon  is  dark 
for  you,  and  offers  you  no  cheerful  prospect ;  but  a  million 
francs  is  a  good  thing  notwithstanding,  and  one  day  you 
will  know  how  to  prize  it.  This  million  of  francs  makes 
you  a  rich  man,  and  a  rich  man  is  a  free  and  independent 
man.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  live  longer  as  a  soldier,  you 
have  the  power  to  give  up  your  commission  and  live  with- 
out care,  and  that  is  something.  My  next  business  will  be 
to  assure  you  your  fortune  against  all  the  uncertainties  of 
the  future,  which  are  the  more  to  be  guarded  against,  as 
we  are  soon  to  advance  into  Italy  again  for  the  next  cam- 
paign. I  can,  therefore,  not  put  your  property  and  your 
papers  into  your  hands,  for  they  constitute  your  future, 
and  we  must  deposit  them  with  some  one  with  whom  they 
shall  be  safe,  and  that  must  be  with  a  man  of  peace.  Do 
you  know  who  this  man  is?" 


THE   BARON    DE   RICHEMONT.  517 

"I  know  no  one,  general,  excepting  yourself,"  replied 
Louis,  with  a  shrug,  "  whom  I  should  dare  to  trust." 

"But,  fortunately,  I  know  an  entirely  reliable  man; 
shall  I  tell  you  who  he  is?" 

"  Do  so,  I  beg  you,  general." 

"  His  name  is  Fouche." 

Louis  started,  and  a  deathly  paleness  covered  his  cheeks. 
"Fouche,  the  chief  of  police!  Fouche,  the  traitor,  who 
gave  his  voice  in  the  Convention  for  the  death  of  King 
Louis — to  him,  the  red  republican,  a  man  of  blood  and 
treachery,  do  you  want  to  convey  my  papers  and  my 
property?" 

"  Yes,  Louis,  for  with  him  alone  are  they  secure.  Fou- 
che will  protect  you,  and  will  stand  by  you  with  just  as 
much  zeal  as  he  once  displayed  in  the  persecution  of  the 
royal  family.  I  know  him  well,  and  I  vouch  for  him. 
Men  must  not  always  be  judged  by  their  external  appear- 
ance. He  who  shows  himself  our  enemy  to-day,  lends  us 
to-morrow,  it  may  be,  a  helpful  arm,  and  becomes  our 
friend,  sometimes  because  his  heart  has  been  changed,  and 
sometimes  because  his  character  is  feeble.  I  cannot  with 
certainty  say  which  of  these  reasons  has  determined  Fou- 
che, but  I  am  firmly  convinced  that  he  will  be  a  protector 
and  a  friend  to  you,  and  that  in  no  hands  will  your  prop- 
erty and  your  papers  be  safer  than  in  his."  * 

Louis  made  no  reply;  he  dropped  his  head  with  a  sigh, 
and  submitted. 

On,  in  the  new  century,  rolled  the  victorious  car  of 
Bonaparte,  down  the  Alps,  into  the  fertile  plains  of  Italy. 
The  conqueror  of  Lodi  and  Arcole  meant  to  take  revenge 
on  the  enemies  who  had  snatched  back  the  booty — revenge 
on  Austria,  who  had  broken  the  peace  of  Campo  Formio. 
And  he  did  take  this  revenge  at  Marengo,  where,  on  the 
14th  of  June,  he  gained  a  brilliant  victory  over  Austria, 
and  won  all  Italy  as  the  prize  of  the  battle. 

But  the  day  was  purchased  at  a  sacrifice.  General 
Desaix  paid  with  his  death  for  his  impetuous  onset.  In 
the  very  thick  of  the  fight,  mortally  wounded  by  a  ball,  he 
fell  into  the  arms  of  his  adjutant  Louis,  and  only  with  ex- 

*  Desaix's  own  words.— See  "M6moires  du  Due  de  Normandie,"  p.  61. 


518  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

treme  peril  could  the  latter,  himself  wounded,  bear  the 
general  away  from  the  melee,  and  not  be  trampled  to  death 
by  the  horses  of  his  own  soldiers. 

Poor  Louis  Charles !  He  now  stood  entirely  alone — the 
last  friend  had  left  him.  Death  had  taken  away  every 
thing,  parents,  crown,  home,  name,  friends.  He  was 
alone,  all  alone  in  the  world — no  man  to  take  any  interest 
in  him,  no  one  to  know  who  he  was. 

Sunk  in  sadness,  he  remained  in  Alessandria  after  the 
battle  of  Marengo,  and  allowed  his  external  wound  to  heal, 
while  the  internal  one  continued  to  bleed.  He  cursed 
death,  because  it  had  not  taken  him,  while  removing  his 
last  friend. 

And  when  the  wound  was  healed,  what  should  he  do? — 
under  what  name  and  title  should  he  be  enrolled  in  the 
army?  His  only  protector  was  dead,  and  the  adjutant  was 
reported  to  have  died  with  him.  He  put  off  the  uniform 
which  he  had  worn  as  the  soldier  of  the  republic  which  had 
destroyed  his  throne  and  his  inheritance,  and,  in  simple, 
unpretending  garments,  he  returned  to  Paris,  an  unknown 
young  man. 

Desaix  was  right;  it  was,  indeed,  something  to  possess  a 
million  of  francs.  Poor  as  he  was  in  love  and  happiness, 
this  million  of  francs  made  him  at  least  a  free  and  in- 
dependent man,  and  therefore  he  would  demand  his  inher- 
itance of  him  whom  he  formerly  shunned  because  he  was 
one  of  the  murderers  of  his  father. 

Fouche  received  the  young  man  exactly  as  Desaix  had 
expected.  He  showed  himself  in  the  light  of  a  sympathiz- 
ing protector;  he  was  touched  with  the  view  of  this  youth, 
whose  countenance  was  the  evidence  of  his  lineage,  the  liv- 
ing picture  of  the  unfortunate  Louis  XVI.,  whom  Fouche 
had  brought  to  the  scaffold.  Perhaps  this  man  of  blood 
and  the  guillotine  had  compunctions  of  conscience;  per- 
haps he  wanted  to  atone  to  the  son  for  his  injuries  to  the 
parents;  perhaps  he  was  planning  to  make  of  the  son  of 
the  Bourbons  a  check  to  the  ambitious  consul  of  the  re- 
public; perhaps  to  humiliate  the  grasping  Count  de  Lille, 
who  was  intriguing  at  all  the  European  courts  for  the  pur- 
pose of  raising  armies  against  the  French  republic.  The 
son  of  Louis  XVI.  could  be  employed  as  a  useful  foil  to 


THE    BARON    DE   RICHEMONT.  519 

all  these  political  manoeuvres,  and  subsequently  he  could 
either  be  publicly  acknowledged,  or  denounced  as  an  im- 
postor, as  circumstances  might  determine. 

At  present  it  suited  the  plans  of  the  crafty  Fouche  to 
acknowledge  him,  and  to  assume  the  attitude  of  a  pro- 
tector. He  put  on  a  very  respectful  and  sympathetic  air 
to  the  poor  solitary  youth ;  with  gentle,  tremulous  voice  he 
called  him  your  Majesty;  he  begged  his  pardon  for  the 
past;  he  spoke  with  such  deep  emotion  ^and  so  solemn  a 
tone  of  the  good,  great,  and  gentle  Louis  XVI.,  that  the 
heart  of  the  son  was  powerfully  touched.  And  when  Fou- 
che, with  flaming  words  of  enthusiasm,  began  to  speak  of 
the  noble,  unhappy  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  when  with 
glowing  eloquence  he  celebrated  her  beauty  and  her  gentle- 
ness in  time  of  good-fortune,  her  greatness  and  steadfast- 
ness in  ill-fortune,  all  the  anger  of  the  young  man  melted 
in  the  tears  of  love  which  he  poured  out  as  he  remembered 
his  mother. 

"I  forgive  you,  Fouche;  yes,  I  forgive  you,"  he  cried, 
extending  both  his  hands.  "I  see  plainly  the  power  of 
political  faction  hurried  you  away;  but  your  heart  cannot 
be  bad,  for  you  love  my  noble  mother.  I  forgive  you,  and 
I  trust  you." 

Fouche,  deeply  moved,  sank  upon  his  knee  before  the 
dauphin,  and  called  himself  one  of  his  loyal  subjects,  and 
promised  to  take  all  means  to  restore  the  young  king  to  the 
throne  of  his  fathers.  He  conjured  Louis  to  trust  him,  and 
to  enter  upon  no  plan  without  asking  his  counsel. 

Louis  promised  this.  He  told  Fouche  that  he  was  the 
only  man  who  had  talked  with  him  about  the  past  without 
using  ambiguous  language;  that  he  was  surprised  at  this, 
and'compelled  to  recognize  as  true  what  formerly  had  been 
fettered  on  his  tongue.  He  told  him  that  he  had  prom- 
ised his  rescuer,  with  a  solemn  oath,  never  to  acknowledge 
himself  as  the  son  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  King  of  France, 
till  this  rescuer  and  benefactor  empowered  him  to  do  so, 
and  released  him  from  his  vow  of  silence.  He  made  it, 
therefore,  the  first  condition  of  his  confidence  that  Fouche 
should  disclose  his  secret  to  no  one,  but  carry  it  faithfully 
in  his  own  breast. 

Fouche  promised  all,  and  took  a  sacred  oath  that  he 


520  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

would  never  reveal  the  secret  confided  to  him  by  the  King 
of  France.  But  he  confessed  at  the  same  time  that  the 
First  Consul  knew  very  well  that  the  son  of  the  king  had 
been  released  from  the  Temple,  and  that  among  the  posthu- 
mous papers  of  Kleber  there  was  a  letter  directed  to  Bona- 
parte, stating  that  he,  Kleber,  knew  very  well  that  the 
little  Capet  was  still  living,  and  imploring  Bonaparte  to 
restore  the  orphan  to  the  throne  of  the  Lilies.  The  consul 
had,  therefore,  quietly  made  investigations,  and  learned 
that  Louis  had  taken  part  as  the  adjutant  of  General  De- 
saix  in  the  battle  of  Marengo,  that  he  had  been  wounded 
there,  and  remained  in  the  hospital  of  Alessandria  till  his 
recovery.  Since  then  all  trace  of  the  young  man  had  been 
lost,  and  he  had  commissioned  Fouche  to  discover  the 
adjutant  of  Kleber  and  Desaix  and  bring  him  to  him. 

"You  will  not  do  that?"  cried  Louis,  eagerly ;  "youAvill 
not  disclose  me?" 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?"  asked  Fouche,  with  a  sus- 
picious smile. 

The  young  man  blushed,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his 
clear  forehead. 

"Fear!"  he  replied  with  a  shrug.  " The  sons  of  my  an- 
cestors have  no  fear;  and  I  have  shown  on  the  battle-fields 
of  Aboukir  and  Marengo,  and  in  the  pest-houses  of  Jaffa, 
that  I  know  not  the  word.  But  when  one  meets  a  blood- 
thirsty lion  in  his  path  he  turns  out  of  the  way,  and  when 
a  tiger  extends  its  talons  at  one  he  flies;  that  is  the  duty 
of  self-preservation,  and  not  the  flight  of  a  coward." 

"Do  you  believe,  then,  that  this  lion  thirsts  for  royal 
blood?" 

"  I  believe  that  he  thirsts  for  royal  rank,  and  that  he  will 
neglect  no  means  to  vanquish  all  hinderances  that  might 
intervene  between  himself  and  the  throne.  Do  you  be- 
lieve, sir,  that  the  man  who,  after  the  battle  of  Aboukir, 
sentenced  five  thousand  prisoners  to  death,  would  hesitate 
a  moment  to  take  the  life  of  a  poor,  defenceless  young  man 
such  as  I  am?  He  would  beat  me  into  the  dust  as  the  lion 
does  the  flea  which  dares  to  play  with  his  mane." 

"It  appears  you  know  this  lion  very  well,"  said  Fouche, 
with  a  smile,  "and  I  really  believe  you  judge  him  rightly. 
But  be  without  concern.  He  shall  not  know  from  me  that 


THE   BARON    DE    RICHEMONT.  521 

I  am  aware  of  you  and  your  abiding-place.  In  order  that 
Bonaparte  shall  not  take  me  to  be  a  bad  detective,  I  shall 
show  him  in  all  other  things  that  I  am  on  the  alert.  In 
case  of  necessity,  it  may  be  that  I  shall  have  to  resort  to 
deception,  and,  in  order  to  save  your  life,  inform  the  con- 
sul that  you  are  dead.  There  were  a  great  many  young 
officers  who  fell  at  Marengo,  or  afterward  died  as  the  result 
of  their  wounds.  Why  should  not  the  adjutant  of  Gen- 
eral Desaix  have  met  this  fate?  Yes,  I  believe  this  will  be 
the  best.  I  will  give  you  out  as  dead,  in  order  to  save  your 
life.  I  will  cause  a  paper  to  be  prepared  which  shall  tes- 
tify that  the  adjutant  of  General  Desaix,  who  lay  there  in 
the  hospital,  died  there  of  his  wounds  and  was  buried." 

"And  so  I  shall  disappear  from  life  a  second  time?" 
asked  Louis,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  sire,  in  order  to  enter  anew  upon  it  with  greater 
splendor,"  replied  Fouche,  eagerly. 

"  Who  knows  whether  this  shall  ever  be?"  sighed  Louis. 
"  How  shall  I  be  able  to  establish  my  identity  if  I  die  and 
am  buried  twice?  Who  will  be  my  pledge  that  I  shall  be 
able  to  convince  men  that  I  am  not  a  deceiver,  and  that 
my  whole  existence  is  not  an  idle  tale?  There  are  only  a 
few  who  know  and  believe  that  little  Capet  escaped  from 
the  Temple,  and  went  to  Egypt  as  Kleber's  adjutant.  If, 
now,  these  few  learn  that  the  adjutant  fell  in  battle,  if  the 
paper  that  testifies  to  his  death  is  laid  before  them,  how 
shall  I  subsequently  be  believed  if  I  announce  that  I  am 
alive,  and  that  I  am  the  one  for  whom  I  give  myself  out? 
The  seal  of  royalty  is  impressed  on  no  man's  brow,  and  we 
know  from  history  that  there  have  been  false  pretenders." 

"  You  shall  show  with  your  papers  that  you  are  none 
such,"  said  Fouche,  eagerly,  "and  God  will  grant  that  I, 
too,  shall  be  living  when  the  time  shall  be  in  which  you 
may  come  forward  with  raised  voice  and  demand  your  in- 
heritance and  your  throne.  Hope  for  that  time,  and 
meanwhile  preserve  your  papers  well.  Carry  them  always 
with  you,  part  with  them  neither  day  nor  night,  for  in 
these  papers  rest  your  future  and  your  crown.  No  other 
man  besides  yourself  can  take  care  of  them.  These  papers 
are  worth  more  to  you  than  a  million  of  francs,  although 
even  that  should  not  be  scorned.  Here  are  the  documents 


522  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

that  give  you  possession  of  your  wealth.  I  have  deposited 
your  funds  in  the  Bank  of  France,  and  you  can  draw  out 
money  at  any  time  by  presenting  these  checks  that  I  give 
you,  simply  writing  your  name  upon  them." 

"By  simply  writing  my  name  upon  them!"  cried  Louis, 
bitterly.  "But,  sir,  what  is  my  name?  How  shall  I  be 
called?  I  was  formerly  designated  as  the  nephew  of  Kle- 
ber,  Colonel  Louis,  the  adjutant  of  Desaix.  But  Colonel 
Louis  can  no  longer  acknowledge  that  he  is  alive,  and  you 
propose  to  convince  the  First  Consul  that  the  nephew  of 
Kleber  is  dead.  Who,  then,  am  I?  What  name  shall  I 
subscribe  to  those  papers?  By  what  name  shall  the  name- 
less, the  dead  and  buried,  the  resurrected,  the  again  dead 
and  buried  one — bv  what  name  shall  he  draw  money  from 
the  bank?" 

"Very  true,"  said  Fouche.  "A  name,  or  rather  the 
mask  of  a  citizen's  or  nobleman's  name,  must  be  your  dis- 
guise, and  it  is  imperatively  necessary  that  we  give  you 
such,  and  provide  you  with  papers  that  cannot  be  forged, 
which  shall  prove  your  existence,  and  secure  you  against 
every  assault." 

"Very  good;  then  tell  me  how  I  shall  be  called,"  said 
Louis,  sadly.  "Be  the  godfather  of  the  solitary  and 
nameless." 

"Well,  I  will,"  cried  Fouche.  "In  the  glamour  of 
political  passions  I  have  raised  my  voice  against  the  life  of 
your  father;  full  of  regret  I  will  raise  my  voice  for  the  life 
of  the  son,  and  assist  him  to  enter  afresh  upon  life  and 
into  the  society  of  men.  Young  man,  I  will  give  you  a 
name  and  rank,  till  the  French  nation  restore  to  you  your 
true  name  and  rank.  You  shall  henceforth  be  called  the 
Baron  de  Richemont.  Will  you  accept  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  Avill  accept  it,"  said  Louis,  gently.  "  To  be  the 
Baron  de  Richemont  is  better  than  to  be  a  dead  and  buried 
person  without  any  name." 

"  Very  good,  my  lord  baron,"  cried  Fouche,  "  I  will  have 
the  necessary  certificates  and  papers  made  out,  and  enter 
your  property  in  the  Bank  of  France  under  the  name  of 
the  Baron  de  Eichemont.  If  you  please,  come  to-morrow 
to  me,  and  I  will  deliver  to  you  the  papers  of  Monsieur  de 
Richemont." 


FOUCHE.  523 

"I  shall  come,  be  sure  of  that,"  said  Louis,  giving  him 
his  hand ;  "  it  seems  to  me  my  fate  to  go  incognito  through 
life,  and  God  alone  knows  whether  I  shall  ever  abandon 
this  incognito." 

He  saluted  Fouche  with  a  sad  smile,  and  went  out.  The 
minister  listened  to  the  resounding  footstep,  and  then 
broke  out  into  loud,  mocking  laughter. 

"Foolish  boy!"  he  said,  raising  his  hand  threateningly, 
"foolish  boy!  You  suppose  that  only  God  knows  whether 
you  will  ever  come  out  of  your  incognito.  You  mistake — 
besides  God,  Fouche  knows  it.  Yes,  Fouche  knows  that 
this  incognito  extends  over  you  like  a  net,  from  which  you 
never  will  escape.  No,  the  Baron  de  Richemont  shall 
never  be  transformed  into  King  Louis  XVII.  But  he 
shall  be  an  instrument  with  which  I  will  hold  in  check  this 
ambitious  Consul  Bonaparte,  who  is  striving  for  the 
throne,  and  this  grasping  Count  de  Lille,  who  in  his  exile 
calls  himself  King  Louis  XVIII. — the  instrument  with 
which  I  threaten  when  I  am  threatened.  Only,  my  little 
Baron  de  Eichemont,  I  do  not  know  what  I  can  make  out 
of  you,  but  I  know  that  you  shall  make  out  of  me  a  rich, 
dangerous,  and  dreaded  man.  Poor,  credulous  fool !  How 
easily  you  fall  into  the  pit!  The  Baron  de  Richemont 
shall  never  escape  from  it.  I  vouch  for  it — I,  Fouche!" 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

FOUCHE. 

THE  First  Consul  was  walking  with  hasty  steps  up  and 
down  his  cabinet.  His  eyes  flashed,  and  his  face,  which 
elsewhere  was  impenetrable,  like  that  of  the  brazen  statues 
of  the  Roman  emperors,  disclosed  the  fiery  impatience  and 
stormy  passions  which  raged  within  him.  His  lips,  which 
were  pressed  closely  together,  opened  now  and  then  to  mut- 
ter a  word  of  threatening  or  of  anger,  and  that  word  he 
hurled  like  a  poisoned  arrow  directly  at  the  man  who,  in  a 
respectful  attitude  and  with  pallid  cheeks,  stood  not  far 
from  the  door,  near  the  table  covered  with  papers. — This 
man  was  Fouche,  formerly  the  chief  of  police  in  Paris,  and 
34 


524  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

now  a  mere  member  of  the  senate  of  the  republic.  He  had 
gone  to  the  Tuileries  in  order  to  request  a  secret  audience 
of  Bonaparte,  who  had  now  forgotten  the  little  prefix  of 
"  First"  to  his  consular  title,  and  now  reigned  supreme  and 
alone  over  France. 

Bonaparte  suddenly  paused  in  his  rapid  walk,  coming  to 
a  halt  directly  in  front  of  Fouche,  and  looked  at  him  with 
flaming  eyes,  as  if  they  were  two  daggers  with  which  he 
meant  to  pierce  deep  into  his  heart.  But  Fouche  did  not 
see  this,  for  he  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  and  appeared  not 
to  be  aware  that  Bonaparte  was  so  near  him. 

"Fouche,"  cried  the  consul,  violently,  "I  know  you, 
and  I  am  not  to  be  deceived  by  your  indifferent,  affected 
air!  You  shall  know  that  I  do  not  fear  you — you  and  all 
the  ghosts  that  you  can  conjure  up.  You  think  that  you 
frighten  me ;  you  wish  that  I  should  pay  you  dearly  for 
your  secret.  But  you  shall  know  that  I  am  not  at  all  of  a 
timorous  nature,  and  that  I  shall  pay  no  money  for  the 
solution  of  a  riddle  which  I  may  perhaps  be  able  to  solve 
without  your  help.  I  warn  you,  sir,  you  secret-vender,  be 
well  on  your  guard !  You  have  your  spies,  but  I  have  my 
police,  and  they  inform  me  about  every  thing  out  of  the 
usual  course.  It  is  known,  sir,  that  you  are  carrying  on  a 
correspondence  with  people  out  of  the  country — under- 
stand me,  with  people  out  of  the  country!" 

"Consul,"  replied  Fouche,  calmly,  "I  have  certainly  not 
known  that  the  republic  forbids  its  faithful  servants  to 
send  letters  abroad." 

"  The  republic  will  never  allow  one  of  its  servants  to 
correspond  with  its  enemies,"  cried  Bonaparte,  in  thunder- 
ing tones.  "Be  silent,  sir!  no  evasions,  no  circumlocu- 
tions !  Let  us  speak  plainly,  and  to  the  point.  You  are 
in  correspondence  with  the  Count  de  Lille." 

"  You  know  that,  consul,  for  I  have  had  the  honor  to 
give  you  a  letter  myself,  which  the  pretender  directed  to 
you,  and  sent  to  me  to  be  delivered." 

"A  ridiculous,  nonsensical  letter,"  replied  Bonaparte, 
with  a  shrug;  "a  letter  in  which  this  fool  demands  of  me 
to  bring  him  back  to  France,  and  to  indicate  the  place 
which  I  wish  to  occupy  in  his  government.  By  my  word, 
an  idiot  could  not  write  a  more  crazy  document!  I  am  to 


FOUCHE.  525 

indicate  the  place  which  I  wish  to  occupy  in  his  govern- 
ment! Well,  I  shall  do  that;  but  there  will  be  no  place 
left  near  me  for  the  Bourbons,  whom  France  has  spewed 
out,  as  one  spews  out  mortal  poison.  These  hated  and 
weak  Bourbons  shall  never  attain  to  power  and  prestige 
again.  France  has  turned  away  from  them.  France  ab- 
hors this  degenerate  race  of  kings;  it  will  erect  a  new 
edifice  of  power  and  glory,  but  there  will  be  no  room  in  it 
for  the  Bourbons!  Mark  that,  intriguer,  and  build  no  air- 
castles  on  it.  I  demand  of  you  an  open  confession,  for  I 
shall  accuse  you  as  a  traitor  and  a  royalist." 

"Consul,  I,  shall  not  avoid  this  charge,"  replied  Fouche, 
calmly,  "  and  I  am  persuaded  that  France  will  follow  with 
interest  the  course  of  a  trial  which  will  unveil  an  important 
secret — which  will  inform  it  that  the  rightful  King  of 
France,  according  to  the  opinion  of  Consul  Bonaparte,  did 
not  die  in  the  Temple  under  the  tender  care  of  Simon  the 
cobbler,  but  is  still  alive,  and  is,  therefore,  the  true  heir  of 
the  crown.  That  would  occasion  some  joy  to  the  royalists, 
surely!" 

The  consul  stamped  on  the  floor  with  rage,  his  eyes  shot 
flames,  and  when  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  rang  like  peals 
of  thunder,  so  angrily  and  so  powerfully  did  it  pour  forth. 

"  I  will  change  the  paeans  and  the  joy  of  these  royalists 
to  lamentations  and  wailings,"  he  cried.  "All  the  enemies 
of  France  shall  know  that  I  hold  the  sword  in  my  hands, 
and  mean  to  use  it,  not  only  against  foes  without,  but  foes 
within.  France  has  given  me  this  sword,  and  I  shall  not 
lay  it  down,  even  if  all  the  kings  of  Europe,  and  all  the 
Bourbons  who  lie  in  the  vaults  of  St.  Denis,  leave  their 
graves,  to  demand  it  from  me !  I  am  the  living  sword  of 
France,  and  never  shall  this  sword  bow  before  the  sceptre 
of  a  Bourbon.  Fresh  shoots  might  sooner  spring  from  the 
dead  stick  which  the  wanderer  carries  through  the  desert, 
than  a  Bourbon  sceptre  could  grow  from  the  sword  of 
Bonaparte ;  and  all  the  same,  whether  this  Bourbon  calls 
himself  Louis  XVII.  or  Louis  XVIII. !  Mark  that,  Fou- 
che, and  mark  also  that  when  I  once  say  '  I  will, '  I  shall 
know  how  to  make  my  will  good,  even  if  the  whole  world 
ventures  to  confront  me." 

"I    know   that,  consul,"  said    Fouche,  with  deference. 


526  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  God  gave  you,  for  the  weal  of  France,  an  iron  will  and  a 
brain  of  fire,  and  destined  you  to  wear  not  only  laurels, 
but  crowns." 

A  flame  glared  from  the  eyes  of  the  consul  and  played 
over  the  face  of  Fouche,  but  the  latter  appeared  not  to 
notice  it,  for  he  cast  down  his  eyes  again,  and  his  manner 
was  easy  and  unconstrained. 

"You  now  speak  a  word  which  is  not  becoming,"  said 
Bonaparte,  calmly.  "  I  am  the  first  servant  of  the  repub- 
lic, and  in  a  republic  there  are  no  crowns." 

"Not  citizens'  crowns,  general?"  asked  Fouche,  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  I  mean,  that  this  noblest  of  crowns  can 
everywhere  be  acceptable,  and  no  head  has  merited  such  a 
crown  more  than  the  noble  Consul  Bonaparte,  who  has 
made  the  republic  of  France  a  worthy  rival  of  its  sister  in 
North  America." 

Bonaparte  threw  his  head  proudly  back.  "  I  am  not 
ambitious  of  the  honor,"  he  said,  "  of  being  Washington  of 
France." 

"  Yet  you  are  he,  general,"  replied  Fouche,  with  a  smile. 
"  Only  the  Washington  of  France  does  not  live  in  the 
White  House  which  a  republic  has  built,  but  in  the  Tuil- 
eries,  which  he  has  received  as  the  heir  of  the  French 
kings.  General,  as  the  worthiest,  the  greatest,  the  most 
powerful,  and  the  most  signally  called,  you  have  come  into 
the  possession  of  the  inheritance  of  the  kings  of  France. 
For  to  this  inheritance  belongs  also  the  crown  of  France. 
Why  do  you  refuse  this,  while  accepting  all  the  rest?" 

"And  what  if  I  show  you  that  I  do  not  want  it?"  asked 
Bonaparte.  "  And  what  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
feel  myself  worthy  to  assume  the  whole,  undivided  inheri- 
tance of  the  Bourbons?  Would  you  be  foolish  and  sense- 
less enough  to  believe  such  an  idle  tale?" 

"  Consul,  you  have  already  done  so  many  things  that  are 
wonderful,  and  have  brought  so  many  magic  charms  to 
reality,  that  I  no  longer  hold  any  thing  to  be  impossible, 
as  soon  as  you  have  laid  your  hand  upon  it." 

"  And  therefore  you  hold  a  concealed  magician's  wand, 
which  you  propose  to  draw  forth  at  some  decisive  moment, 
and  present  to  me,  as  the  cross  is  presented  to  Beelzebub  in 
the  tale?" 


FOUCHfc.  527 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  consul,"  replied  Fouche,  with 
the  most  innocent  air  in  the  world. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  make  myself  intelligible  The  magi- 
cian's wand,  which  you  are  keeping  concealed,  is  called 
Louis  XVII.  Oh!  do  not  shake  your  cunning  head;  do 
not  deny  with  your  smooth  lips,  which  once  uttered  the 
death-sentence  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  which  now  are  used  to 
teach  a  fool  and  a  pretender  that  he  is  the  son  of  the  mur- 
dered king.  Truly,  it  is  ridiculous.  The  regicide  wants 
to  atone  for  his  offence  by  hatching  a  fable,  and  making  a 
king  out  of  a  manikin." 

"General,  no  fable,  and  no  manikin,"  cried  Fouche, 
with  a  threatening  voice.  "  The  son  of  the  unfortunate 
king  is  alive,  and — " 

"Ah!"  interrupted  Bonaparte,  triumphantly,  " so  you 
confess  at  last,  you  reveal  your  great  secret  at  length !  I 
have  driven  the  sly  fox  out  of  his  hole  and  the  hunt  can 
now  begin.  It  will  be  a  hot  chase,  I  promise  you,  and  I 
shall  not  rest  till  I  have  drawn  the  skin  over  the  ears  of 
the  fox,  or — " 

"  Until  he  says  his  pater  peccavi  ?  "  asked  Fouche,  with  a 
gentle  smile. 

"  Until  he  delivers  to  me  the  changeling  whom  he  wants 
to  use  as  his  Deus  ex  macliina"  replied  Bonaparte.  "  My 
dear  sir,  it  helps  you  not  at  all  to  begin  again  this  system 
of  lies.  Your  anger  has  betrayed  you,  and  I  have  succeeded 
in  outwitting  the  fox.  The  so-called  'son  of  the  king  is 
alive;'  that  has  escaped  you,  and  you  cannot  take  it 
back." 

"No,  it  cannot  be  taken  back,"  replied  Fouche,  with  a 
sigh.  "  I  have  disclosed  myself,  or  rather  I  have  been  out- 
witted. You  are  in  all  things  a  hero  and  a  master,  in 
cunning  as  much  as  in  bravery  and  discretion.  I  bow  be- 
fore you  as  before  a  genius  whom  God  Himself  has  sent 
upon  the  earth,  to  bring  the  chaotic  world  into  order 
again;  I  bow  before  you  as  before  my  lord  and  master; 
and  instead  of  opposing  you,  I  will  henceforth  be  content 
with  being  your  instrument,  provided  that  you  will  accept 
me  as  such." 

"  That  is,  Fouche,  provided  that  I  will  fulfil  your  con- 
ditions," cried  Bonaparte,  with  a  shrug.  "Very  well, 


528  MARIE    ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

name  your  conditions!  Without  circumlocution!  What 
do  you  demand?" 

"  Consul,  in  order  that  we  may  understand  one  another, 
we  must  both  be  open  and  unreserved.  Will  you  permit 
me  to  be  free  with  you?" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Bonaparte,  with  a  condescending 
nod. 

"  Consul,  you  have  thrust  me  aside,  you  have  no  longer 
confidence  in  me.  You  have  taken  from  me  the  post  of 
minister  of  police,  and  given  it  to  my  enemy  Eegnier. 
That  has  given  me  pain,  it  has  injured  me;  for  it  has 
branded  me  before  all  the  world  as  a  useless  man,  whom 
Bonaparte  suspects.  Your  enemies  have  believed  that  my 
alienation  from  you  would  conduce  to  their  advantage,  and 
that  out  of  the  dismissed  police  prefect  they  might  gain  an 
enemy  to  Bonaparte.  Conspirators  of  all  kinds  have  come 
to  me — emissaries  of  Count  de  Lille,  deputies  from  the 
royalists  in  Vendee,  as  well  as  from  the  red  republicans, 
by  whom  you,  Bonaparte,  are  as  much  hated  as  by  the 
royalists,  for  they  will  never  forgive  you  for  putting  your- 
self at  the  head  of  the  republic,  and  making  yourself  their 
master.  All  of  these  parties  «have  made  propositions  to 
me,  all  of  them  want  me  to  join  them.  I  have  lent  my  ear 
to  them  all,  I  have  been  informed  of  all  their  plans,  and 
am  at  this  hour  the  sworn  ally  of  both  the  republicans  and 
the  royalists.  Oh!  I  beg  you,"  continued  Fouche,  as 
Bonaparte  started  up,  and  opened,  his  lips  to  speak — "  I 
beg  you,  general,  hear  me  to  the  end,  and  do  not  interrupt 
me  till  I  have  told  you  all. — Yes,  I  have  allied  myself  to 
three  separate  conspiracies,  and  have  become  zealous  in 
them  all.  There  is,  first,  that  of  the  republicans,  who  hate 
you  as  a  tyrant  of  the  republic ;  there  is,  in  the  second 
place,  the  conspiracy  of  the  royalists,  who  want  to  put  the 
Count  de  Lille  on  the  throne;  and  third,  there  is  that  of 
the  genuine  Capetists,  who  want  to  make  the  'orphan  of 
the  Temple'  Louis  XVII.  These  three  conspiracies  have 
it  as  their  first  object  to  remove  and  destroy  Consul  Bona- 
parte. Yes,  to  reach  this  end  the  three  have  united,  and 
made  a  mutual  compromise.  Whichever  party  succeeds  in 
murdering  you,  is  to  come  into  power,  and  the  others  are 
to  relinquish  the  field  to  it:  and  so  if  Bonaparte  is  killed 


FOUCHE.  529 

by  a  republican  dagger,  the  republic  is  to  remain  at  pres- 
ent the  recognized  form  of  government ;  and  if  the  ball  of 
a  royalist  removes  you,  the  republicans  strike  their  banner, 
and  grant  that  France  shall  determine,  by  a  general  ballot, 
whether  it  shall  be  a  republic  or  a  kingdom." 

"Well,"  asked  Bonaparte,  calmly,  as  Fouche  closed,  and 
cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  the  consul's  face,  which  was, 
notwithstanding,  entirely  cold  and  impenetrable — "  well, 
why  do  you  stop?  I  did  not  interrupt  you  with  a  question. 
Goon!" 

"  I  will,  consul.  I  have  made  myself  a  member  of  these 
three  conspiracies;  for,  in  order  to  contend  with  the  heads 
of  Cerberus,  one  must  have  them  all  joined;  and  in  order 
to  be  the  conqueror  in  a  great  affair,  one  must  know  who 
all  his  enemies  are,  and  what  are  all  their  plans.  I  know 
all  the  plans  of  the  allies,  and  because  I  know  them,  it  is 
within  my  power  to  bring  discontent  and  enmity  among 
them,  using  for  this  end  the  third  conspiracy — that  of  the 
dependants  of  Louis  XVII.,  the  orphan  of  the  Temple. 
Through  sympathy  with  him,  I  have  divided  the  party  of 
royalists ;  I  have  withdrawn  from  the  Count  de  Lille  many 
of  his  important  dependants,  and  even  some  of  the  chief 
conspirators,  who  came  to  Paris  to  contend  for  Louis 
XVIII.,  have  recently  in  secret  bent  the  knee  to  Louis 
XVII.,  and  sworn  fidelity  to  him." 

"That  is  not  true,"  cried  Bonaparte,  vehemently. 
"  You  are  telling  me  nurses'  stories,  with  which  children 
may  be  frightened,  but  men  not.  There  are  no  secret 
meetings  in  Paris!" 

"  General,  if  your  minister  of  police,  Eegnier,  has  told 
you  so,  he  only  shows  that  he  is  no  man  to  be  at  the  head 
of  the  police,  and  knows  nothing  of  the  detective  service. 
I  tell  you,  general,  there  are  secret  societies  in  Paris,  and 
I  ought  to  know,  for  I  am  a  member  of  four  separate  ones." 

"Ah!  sir,"  sneered  Bonaparte,  "you  are  out  of  your 
head!  Before,  you  spoke  of  three  conspiracies,  and  now 
they  have  grown  to  be  four." 

"  I  am  speaking  now  of  secret  societies,  consul,  for  not 
every  secret  society  can  be  called  a  conspiracy.  Before, 
when  I  was  giving  account  of  conspiracies,  I  mentioned 
three;  now,  when  we  speak  of  secret  societies,  I  have  to 


530  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

mention  a  fourth.  But  this  does  not  deserve  the  name  of 
a  conspiracy,  for  its  object  is  not  murder  and  revolution, 
nor  does  it  arm  itself  with  daggers  and  pistols." 

"  I  should  be  curious  to  know  the  name  of  your  fourth 
society,"  cried  Bonaparte,  impatiently. 

"  I  will  satisfy  your  curiosity,  general.  This  fourth 
secret  society  bears  the  name  'the  Bonapartists, '  or — allow 
me  to  approach  you  closer,  that  the  walls  of  the  old  palace 
may  not  hear  the  word — or  4the  Imperialists.'  ' 

Bonaparte  shrank  back,  and  a  glow  of  red  passed  for  a 
moment  over  his  cheeks.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  I  mean  by  that,  general,  what  I  have  already  said :  your 
brow  is  made  not  to  wear  laurels  alone,  but  a  crown,  and 
there  is  only  one  way  to  destroy  the  other  three  conspir- 
acies— the  way  proposed  by  the  fourth  secret  society.  In 
order  to  make  the  efforts  of  the  republicans  and  royalists 
ineffective,  and  to  tread  them  under  your  feet,  France 
needs  an  emperor." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  make  your  manikin,  Louis  XVII., 
Emperor  of  France?" 

"No,  general,"  answered  Fouche,  solemnly — "no;  I 
want  to  make  Consul  Bonaparte  Emperor  of  the  French!" 

The  consul  trembled,  and  his  eyes  flashed  through  the 
apartment,  the  former  cabinet  of  Louis  XVI.,  as  if  he 
wanted  to  convince  himself  that  no  one  had  heard  this  dan- 
gerous word  of  the  future.  Then  he  slowly  bent  forward 
without  meeting  Fouche 's  looks,  which  were  intently  fixed 
upon  him. 

A  pause  ensued — a  long,  anxious  pause.  Then  Bona- 
parte slowly  raised  his  eye  again,  and  now  it  was  filled  as 
with  sunlight. 

"  Is  your  fourth  secret  society  numerous?"  he  asked, 
with  that  magical  smile  which  won  all  hearts. 

"  It  comprises  artists,  poets,  scholars,  and  above  every 
thing  else,  officers  and  generals,"  replied  Fouche.  "It 
grows  more  numerous  every  day,  and  as  fortunately  I  have 
only  been  deposed  from  my  place  of  minister  of  police,  but 
still  remain  a  member  of  the  senate  of  the  republic,  it  has 
been  my  effort  to  gain  over  in  the  senate  influential  mem- 
bers for  my  secret  society  of  imperialists.  If  my  hopes  are 
crowned  with  success,  the  secret  society  will  soon  become 


FOUCHft.  531 

an  open  one,  and  the  senate  will  apply  to  you  with  a  pub- 
lic request  to  put  an  end  to  all  these  conspiracies  and  in- 
trigues, to  place  yourself  at  the  head  of  France,  and  accept 
the  imperial  crown  which  the  senate  offers  you.  But — " 

"I  comprehend  your  'but,'  Fouche,"  interrupted  Bona- 
parte, eagerly.  "  You  want  to  make  your  conditions.  An 
imperial  crown  does  not  fall  direct  from  heaven  upon  the 
head  of  a  man ;  there  must  be  hands  there  to  take  it,  and 
it  might  happen  that  they  would  be  crushed  by  the  falling 
crown.  They  must  be  paid  for  their  heroism,  therefore. 
Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  I  give  credence  to  all  your 
stories,  even  that  about  the  empire  of  the  future — tell  me, 
now,  what  you  demand." 

"  General,  if  I  show  you  and  all  France  by  facts  that  the 
country  is  rent  by  conspiracies,  that  the  cancer  of  secret 
societies  is  eating  into  the  very  marrow  of  the  land,  and 
imperilling  all  its  institutions,  will  you  confess  to  me  then 
that  I  am  better  adapted  to  be  the  head  of  the  police  than 
M.  Eegnier  d'Angely,  who  insists  and  dares  to  say  to  you 
that  there  are  no  secret  societies  in  France?" 

"  Prove  to  me  by  facts  the  existence  of  your  conspiracies, 
and  I  will  commission  you  to  help  me  destroy  this  hydra's 
head.  Give  me  the  proofs,  and  you  shall  be  head  of  police 
again." 

Fouche  bowed.  "You  shall  have  the  proofs,  general, 
to-day — at  once,  provided,  that  we  thoroughly  understand 
each  other.  I  am  ambitious,  general,  and  I  have  no  wish 
to  be  driven  back  for  a  single  day  into  nothingness,  as  I 
should  be,  if  my  enemies  withdraw  their  confidence  in  me. 
Now  I  am,  at  least,  a  member  of  the  senate ;  but  if  the 
senate  is  dissolved,  and  I  should  subsequently  be  deposed 
again  from  the  head  of  the  police,  I  should  be  nothing  but 
Fouche — Fouche  fallen  out  of  favor.  Voila  tout !  " 

"  No,  not  so,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  a  smile.  "  You  will 
always  be  known  as  the  murderer  of  the  king;  that  is  a  fine 
title  for  a  republican,  is  it  not?"  . 

"Ah,  general,  I  see  that  you  understand  me,"  cried 
Fouche.  "  We  are  now  talking  about  a  name,  a  position, 
a  title  for  me.  Provided  that  here  in  the  Tuileries  a 
throne  is  reestablished,  we  must  have  a  court  again,  men 
with  orders,  titles,  and  dignities." 


532  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND   HER   SON. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Bonaparte,  thoughtfully.  "  The  world 
continues  to  revolve  in  the  same  circles  of  folly  and  vanity, 
and  after  making  an  effort  to  withdraw  from  them,  it  falls 
back  again  into  the  old  ruts.  Men  are  nothing  but  actors, 
and  every  one  wants  to  adorn  himself  with  glistening  rags, 
in  order  to  take  the  first  part,  and  have  his  name  go  upon 
the  poster  of  history.  Well,  how  would  you  be  called, 
Fouche,  if  the  drama  of  an  empire  should  really  be  brought 
forward  upon  the  great  stage  of  the  world?  " 

"  I  should  like  the  title  of  a  prince  or  duke,  sire." 

Bonaparte  could  scarcely  suppress  the  smile  of  satisfac- 
tion that  played  over  his  face.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  ever  been  addressed  as  king  or  emperor,  and  this 
"  sire"  which  Fouche  dropped  into  the  ear  of  Bonaparte 
like  a  sweet  poison,  flattered  his  senses  and  soothed  him 
like  delightful  music.  But  the  strength  of  his  genius  soon 
resumed  its  sway,  and  he  broke  out  into  a  loud,  merry 
laugh. 

"  Confess,  Fouche,"  he  cried,  "  that  it  is  comical  to  hear 
the  consul  talking  with  a  senator  of  the  republic  about  an 
empire  and  ducal  titles.  Truly,  if  the  strict  republicans 
of  your  conspiracy  number  one  should  hear  this,  they  would 
be  justified  in  accusing  us  as  traitors  and  conspirators." 

"  We  must  get  the  start  of  them — we  must  accuse  them." 

"  If  we  possess  secure  means  to  do  so." 

"I  possess  them,  and  I  will  give  them  to  you,  Consul 
Bonaparte,  as  soon  as  the  emperor  of  the  future  assures  me 
of  a  princely  title,  in  addition  to  the  chieftaincy  of  police." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bonaparte,  laughing,  "  the  emperor  of 
the  future  promises  you  that  as  soon  as  he  is  able  to  bake 
a  batch  of  these  delicacies,  he  will  put  his  chief  of  police 
in  the  oven  and  draw  him  out  as  a  prince  or  a  duke.  The 
emperor  of  the  future  gives  you  his  word  of  honor  that  he 
will  do  it.  Are  you  satisfied  now,  my  lord  republican?" 

"  Sire,  completely  satisfied,"  said  Fouche,  bowing  low. 

"And  now  let  us  talk  together  seriously,"  said  Bona- 
parte. "  You  have  spoken  of  conspiracies ;  you  assert  that 
they  exist,  but  do  not  forget  that  you  have  promised  me 
tangible  proofs — understand  me  well,  tangible  proofs;  that 
is,  it  is  not  enough  for  me  to  see  the  papers  and  the  lists 
of  conspirators  who  have  escaped  into  foreign  lands — I 


FOUCHE.  533 

want  persons,  men  of  flesh  and  blood — traitors  whom  I 
may  hang,  not  in  effigy,  but  in  reality,  and  who  may  serve 
as  a  warning  example  to  the  whole  herd  of  conspirators, 
and  put  an  end  forever  to  this  nonsense.  I  am  wearied  of 
being  perpetually  threatened  by  traitors,  poisoned  daggers, 
air-guns,  plots,  and  intrigues,  of  all  kinds.  It  is  time  to 
hunt  down  the  chief  men  of  these  bravoes  who  have  been 
sent  here  from  England,  Germany,  Eussia,  and  Italy,  and 
I  have  had  enough  of  illustrating  the  old  proverb,  'Hang 
the  little  thief  and  let  the  great  one  run.'  I  mean  to  have 
the  great  thief  and  to  hang  him,  for  that  is  the  only  way  of 
intimidating  these  fellows  and  inspiring  them  with  respect." 

"Sire,  you  shall  have  your  great  thieves,"  said  Fouche, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Give  them  into  my  hands,  and  I  promise  you  they  shall 
never  escape,"  cried  Bonaparte,  eagerly.  "  It  is  high  time 
to  make  an  example,  and  show  these  people  at  last  that  I 
claim  the  right  of  paying  back.  The  Count  de  Lille  and 
the  Duke  d'Enghien  are  always  egging  their  conspirators 
upon  me;  they  appear  to  have  no  other  aim  than  to  get 
rid  of  me,  and  are  unwearied  with  their  daggers,  infernal 
machines,  and  counter-plots.  But  their  own  persons,  and 
those  of  their  highest  helpers,  always  remain  beyond  reach. 
They  arrange  their  plans  always  at  a  safe  distance,  and  risk 
nothing  by  this;  for,  if  we  take  some  of  their  subordinate 
tools  and  punish  them,  they  make  an  outcry  about  barbar- 
ity and  cruelty,  and  appeal  to  their  sacred  right  of  using 
all  means  to  regain  their  inheritance,  and  reestablish  the 
throne  in  Prance.  They  do  not  deny  that  they  would  have 
no  conscientious  scruples  about  shedding  my  blood.  Now, 
why  should  I  have  any  about  shedding  theirs?  Blood  for 
blood,  that  is  the  natural  and  unavoidable  law  of  retali- 
ation, and  woe  to  him  who  lays  claim  to  it!  These  Bour- 
bons do  so.  I  have  never  injured  one  of  them  personally; 
a  great  nation  has  placed  me  at  its  head ;  my  blood  is  worth 
as  much  as  theirs,  and  it  is  time  at  last  that  I  make  it  al 
pari  with  theirs.  I  will  no  longer  serve  as  a  target  for  all 
murderers,  and  then  afterward  only  find  the  dagger,  in- 
stead of  seizing  the  hands  that  ply  it.  Let  me  once  have 
hold  of  the  hands,  and  all  the  daggers  will  disappear 
forever!" 


534  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  I  will  give  these  hands  into  your  power,  or,  at  least, 
some  fingers  of  them." 

"I  want  them  all,"  cried  Bonaparte,  eagerly, — "all  the 
fingers,  all  the  hands.  You  have  spoken  of  three  different 
conspiracies.  I  want  the  leaders  of  them,  and  then  all 
others  may  run.  If  the  hydra  loses  its  three  heads,  it  must 
at  last  die.  So  give  me  the  three  heads,  that  of  the  repub- 
licans and  of  the  two  royalist  parties.  The  head  of  con- 
spiracy number  two  I  know ;  it  is  the  Count  de  Lille.  He 
is  the  sly  spider  who  always  withdraws  behind  his  nets,  but 
I  know  the  hand,  too,  that  is  set  in  motion  by  this  head ; 
it  is  the  Duke  d'Enghien.  He  is  an  untiring  conspirator, 
wholly  occupied  with  infernal  machines  and  daggers  for 
me.  Ah!  let  him  take  care  of  himself,  the  little  Duke 
d'Enghien.  If  I  take  him,  I  will  exercise  the  right  of  re- 
taliation upon  him,  for  I  am  determined  to  have  peace. 
We  now  come  to  your  conspiracy  number  three,  to  your 
Deus  ex  machina,  the  so-called  Louis  XVII.  This  Detis 
really  exists?  " 

"Yes,  general,  he  exists." 

Bonaparte  laughed  aloud,  but  his  laughter  sounded  like 
a  threat.  "I  have  heard  of  this  story,"  he  said.  "The 
good-natured  Kleber  believed  it,  and,  after  his  death,  a 
paper  was  given  to  me,  written  by  him,  and  directed  to 
me,  which  stated  that  his  so-called  nephew  Louis  was  the 
heir  of  the  King  of  France,  and  implored  me  earnestly  to 
take  the  orphan  of  the  Temple  under  my  protection.  I 
instituted  inquiries  for  him  at  once;  it  was  after  the  battle 
of  Marengo,  and  this  Monsieur  Louis  was,  till  then,  ad- 
jutant of  General  Desaix." 

"Yes,  general,  adjutant  of  Desaix,  down  to  the  battle 
of  Marengo — that  is,  to  the  death  of  Desaix." 

"  If  I  mistake  not,  his  adjutant  was  wounded  in  the  bat- 
tle, and  lay  at  the  hospital  in  Alessandria." 

"  It  is  so,  general.  I  wonder  how  closely  you  have  been 
informed  respecting  the  fortunes  of  this  young  man." 

"  From  that  time  all  tr,ace  of  him  has  been  lost,  and  all 
my  inquiries  have  proved  in  vain.  The  adjutant  of  Desaix, 
who  fought  so  bravely,  and  who  bore  my  dying  comrade  in 
his  arms,  deserved  advancement,  and  I  wanted  to  give  it 
to  him,  and  therefore  searched  for  him,  but  in  vain.  I 


FOUCHfi.  535 

believed  him  dead,  and  now  you  come  and  tell  me  about  a 
conspiracy  in  favor  of  Louis  XVII.  This  young  pretender 
is  still  alive,  then,  and  there  are  childlike  souls  who  believe 
his  story,  are  there?" 

"  General,  he  says  little,  for  he  is  very  silent  and  reticent, 
but  he  has  testimonials  which  speak  for  him,  and  which 
show  that  his  story  is  not  an  idle  tale,  but  a  fragment  of 
history.  His  papers  give  clear  and  undeniable  evidence  of 
his  lineage  and  the  course  of  his  life." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  these  papers  once,"  said  the  consul. 

"  He  never  lets  them  go  out  of  his  hands,  for  he  knows 
very  well  that  they  are  his  security  for  a  crown." 

"  Then  bring  me  the  man  himself,  and  then  I  shall  have 
him  and  his  papers,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  a  growl  like  a 
lion's.  "  Is  not  he  the  head  of  the  conspiracy?" 

"  Yes,  general,  the  head  of  a  conspiracy  which  I  have 
conducted,  because  I  meant  to  have  all  the  threads  in  my 
hands,  if  I  was  to  see  clearly.  In  order  to  prove  the  royal- 
ists, I  threw  them  this  bait,  and  many  of  them  have  taken 
the  hook  and  come  over  to  the  young  king.  In  this  way  I 
have  made  a  division  in  the  ranks  of  the  royalists,  and  the 
Count  de  Lille  already  sees  the  consequences.  The  so- 
called  orphan  of  the  Temple  has  at  this  hour  no  enemy  who 
hates  him  more  than  the  Count  de  Lille." 

"  But  this  enmity  of  the  Count  de  Lille  vanishes  like  a 
glow-worm  in  the  darkness.  I  want  tangible  proofs  by 
which  I  can  arrest  my  enemies.  Can  you  give  them  to  me?" 

"General,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  do  this.  We  will 
speak  of  it  hereafter.  Allow  me  first  a  word  about  this 
dangerous  adjutant  of  Desaix,  Colonel  Louis.  You  said, 
general,  that  you  made  futile  efforts  to  gain  information 
about  this  interesting  and  brave  young  man.  Those  efforts 
were  made  in  the  years  when  M.  Eegnier  d'Angely  was 
chief  of  police,  in  which  my  enemies  succeeded  in  with- 
drawing the  confidence  of  the  First  Consul  from  me.  But 
had  I  been  chief  of  police  at  that  time,  I  should  have  been 
able  to  tell  you  that  the  young  man  whom  you  were  seek- 
ing, and  respecting  whom  you  obtained  no  information, 
was  living  here  in  Paris." 

"What!"  cried  Bonaparte,  in  amazement.  "This  so- 
called  Louis  XVII.  in  Paris,  then?" 


536  MAEIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

"  General,  he  is  still  here ;  he  has  been  living  in  Paris 
for  about  four  years — about  as  long  as  M.  Regnier  has  been 
head  of  police." 

"  And  Regnier  has  told  me  nothing  about  it !  Has  he 
not  known  that  so  dangerous  a  person  was  living  in  Paris?" 

Fouche  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Monsieur  Regnier — 
who  doubts  the  existence  of  secret  societies  in  France,  and 
tells  you  that  the  assassins  who  have  so  often  of  late  im- 
perilled your  life  have  all  been  sent  hither  from  foreign 
parts  by  the  pretenders  to  the  crown,  and  that  there  are  no 
conspirators  in  France — Monsieur  Regnier  could  not  of 
course  know  the  head  of  this  secret  society.  He  left  them 
to  follow  their  own  pleasures  unhindered  here  in  Paris. 
But  I  know  them,  and  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  gen- 
eral, that  the  so-called  nephew  of  Kleber  is  living  here  in 
Paris.  Directly  after  his  arrival  he  came  to  me,  and  1 
handed  to  him  the  papers  and  documents  which  Desaix 
intrusted  to  me,  and  which  I  had  solemnly  sworn  to  deliver 
to  his  adjutant  Louis.  The  young  man  gave  me  his  con- 
fidence, and  when  I  spoke  to  him  regretfully  and  with 
enthusiasm  about  his  father  and  his  mother,  and  addressed 
him  as  'his  majesty,'  I  won  his  love.  He  opened  his  heart 
to  me,  confessed  that  he  was  Louis  XVII.,  and  asked  my 
counsel  and  help.  I  promised  him  both,  and  showed  my- 
self to  him  in  a  very  compliant  and  devoted  mood.  My 
first  counsel  was,  that  he  should  live  incognito  under  a 
borrowed  name.  In  order  that  this  might  be  possible,  I 
gave  him  the  name  for  his  incognito,  and  had  all  the 
necessary  documents  prepared,  the  certificate  of  his  birth, 
baptism,  the  marriage  of  his  parents,  and  the  will  of  his 
relatives." 

"And  all  these  documents  were  false  and  forged?"  said 
Bonaparte,  in  amazement. 

"  There  are  everywhere  pliable  public  officials  in  France," 
replied  Fouche,  with  a  smile.  "  I  did  not  content  myself 
with  procuring  for  my  protege  the  papers  which  insured 
him  an  honorable  name,  respectable  family  position,  and  a 
life  without  care;  I  did  much  more  for  him.  I  followed 
the  efforts  already  related  with  others.  I  had  a  certificate 
of  the  death  of  M.  Louis  prepared,  so  as  to  give  him  a 
passport  out  of  life.  In  order  to  protect  himself  from 


FOUCHfi.  537 

every  injury,  I  told  him  that  he,  as  the  adjutant  of  Desaix, 
must  pass  as  dead.  He  approved  of  it,  and  I  took  the 
pains  to  procure  from  the  hospital  at  Alessandria  a  duly 
signed  and  sealed  certificate  that  Colonel  Louis,  the  adju- 
tant of  General  Desaix,  died  of  his  Avounds  there." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Bonaparte,  "is  every  thing  in  life 
to  be  bought  and  sold  thus?" 

"  Yes,  general,  every  thing — loyalty  and  love,  life  and 
death.  I  have  caused  the  son  of  the  King  of  France  to 
die,  and  then  rise  again — and  all  with  gold.  But,  when 
the  certificate  arrived,  a  change  had  occurred  in  my  rela- 
tions. I  had  been  removed  from  office,  and  Eegnier  was 
my  successor.  I  kept  the  certificate  in  my  possession ;  but, 
in  order  to  secure  my  protege  against  what  might  befall  me 
in  case  of  my  death,  I  wrote  to  him  that  I  had  received  the 
papers,  and  that  he  would  live  without  danger  in  Paris, 
under  his  assumed  name.  This  letter  I  signed  with  my 
whole  name,  and  set  my  seal  to  it,  that  in  case  of  need  it 
might  be  of  service  to  him." 

"  Fouche,  you  are  a  sly  fox,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  a 
laugh.  "  It  is  easier  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  cannon- 
ball  than  out  of  your  snares.  One  might  say  to  you,  in 
the  words  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  'God  defend  me  from 
my  friends,  from  my  enemies  I  can  defend  myself!'  Ac- 
cording to  this  you  have  caused  Colonel  Louis  to  die  for 
friendship's  sake,  and  rise  again  under  another  name." 

"Yes,  general,  that  is  it!  Colonel  Louis — that  is,  the 
rightful  king,  Louis  XVII. — is  a  tool  in  my  hands,  which 
I  hold  as  a  check  to  all  parties,  and  which  I  can  hold  up 
or  withdraw  according  as  it  pleases  me.  At  present  my 
game  is  not  merely  to  bring  disunion  and  hatred  into  the 
ranks  of  the  royalists,  but  to  bring  over  many  republicans 
who  have  a  soft  heart,  to  be  zealous  partisans  of  the  young 
and  unfortunate  king." 

"And  afterward,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  a  sterner  tone, 
"  you  might  make  use  of  this  instrument  to  intimidate  that 
fourth  party  of  which  you  spoke  before — the  Bonapartists. 
But  you  have  been  mistaken,  Fouch6 ;  this  reckoning  does 
not  do — your  cunning  has  overreached  itself.  You  do  not 
terrify  me ;  and  if  it  could  really  happen  that  the  French 
nation  should  offer  me  an  imperial  crown,  at  the  same  time 


538  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

that  I  should  accept  it,  I  should  put  my  foot  on  the  neck 
of  all  rebels  and  pretenders.  With  a  single  tread  I  would 
crush  them  all.  I  want  no  parties,  no  political  factions; 
I  want  to  bring  all  these  risings  and  agitations  to  si- 
lence. There  shall  be  no  secret  societies  in  France ;  and 
against  each  and  every  conspirator,  whatever  his  rank  may 
be,  I  will  bring  from  this  time  forth  the  whole  weight  of 
the  law.  Mark  this,  Fouche!  I  mean  to  make  an  end  of 
all  parties,  and  only  when  you  shall  give  their  chiefs  into 
my  hand — not  for  my  personal  vengeance,  for  I  cherish  no 
vengeance  against  those  cowardly  worms  of  conspirators, 
but  for  the  righteous  punishment  and  retaliatory  laws  of 
France — only  when  you  are  able,  by  one  grand  coup,  and 
one  well-founded  charge,  to  destroy  all  conspiracies,  and 
bring  all  secret  coalitions  to  the  light,  only  then  shall  you 
become  chief  of  police — only  then  will  the  future  emperor 
give  you  the  title  of  duke." 

"  General,  I  build  on  your  word,  and  I  am  sure  of  be- 
coming chief  of  police  and  duke.  We  will  put  an  end  to 
all  conspiracies." 

"And  to  the  Monsieur  Louis,  too,"  cried  Bonaparte, 
eagerly.  '"  It  is  a  disagreeable  and  troublesome  figure.  So 
long  as  he  lives  he  would  live  in  the  ermine  of  the  imperial 
cloak  like  a  troublesome  insect,  which  always  stings  and 
pricks.  One  must  not  allow  such  insects  to  find  their  way 
into  his  fur,  and  this  Monsieur  Louis  must  be  put  out  of 
the  way  once  for  all.  I  hope  he  has  entered  deeply 
enough  into  the  conspiracy,  not  to  corne  out  of  it  again 
with  a  whole  skin!" 

"  General,  I  have  told  you  already,  that  day  before  yes- 
terday his  dependants  saluted  him,  in  a  secret  gathering, 
as  their  king.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  poor  little  fel- 
low strongly  opposed  it,  and  obstinately  refused  to  accept 
all  honors,  but  the  fact  remains  unchanged." 

"  And  on  the  ground  of  this  fact  shall  he  be  appre- 
hended," cried  Bonaparte,  with  a  threatening  voice. 
"  There  must  be  an  example  made,  and  this  Louis  is  a 
suitable  person  for  it.  He  must  be  the  bete  de  souffrance 
for  all  the  rest.  He  is  the  head  of  a  conspiracy;  we  will 
crush  this  head,  and  the  limbs  will  fall  of  themselves. 
Besides  the  sensitive  souls  who  love  nurses'  stories  and  be- 


FOUCHfi.  539 

lieve  in  every  thing,  there  will  be  no  one  who  will  weep  for 
him.  No  one  will  lament  his  death,  but  he  will  be  a  warn- 
ing to  all.  Direct  yourself  to  this,  Fouche,  and  set  all  the 
infernal  machines  of  your  intrigues  in  operation  that  we 
may  put  an  end  to  conspiracy. " 

"  General,  only  one  thing  is  wanting;  it  is  that  I  be  at 
the  head  of  the  police,  and  have  the  power  in  my  hands  to 
make  my  infernal  machines  effectual." 

"  But  I  have  told  you  that  I  will  appoint  you  as  minister 
only  when  you  give  me  incontrovertible  proofs  that  your 
conspiracies  are  not  the  fabric  of  your  own  phantasy. " 

"  Very  well,  general,  now  that  we  are  at  one,  I  am  pre- 
pared to  give  you  these  proofs.  I  have  told  you  that  the 
royalists  and  republicans  have  united  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  your  life.  They  have  chosen  fifty  men  by  ballot,  in 
foreign  parts,  who  are  to  come  to  Paris  and  accomplish 
here  the  great  work  of  your  destruction.  These  fifty  as- 
sassins have  arrived  in  Paris,  and  their  chief  men  had  an 
interview  yesterday  with  the  chiefs  of  the  conspiracies 
here." 

"Fouche!"  cried  Bonaparte,  with  a  threatening  voice, 
"  think  well  what  you  are  saying.  You  are  playing  for  the 
stake  of  your  own  head !  If  these  fifty  assassins  are  creat- 
ures of  your  own  imagination,  it  is  you  who  will  have  to 
pay  for  it." 

"  These  fifty  men  have  been  in  Paris  since  the  day  before 
yesterday,"  rejoined  Fouche,  quietly.  "  They  came  hither 
by  different  roads,  and  appearing  like  simple  travellers,  and 
yesterday  they  had  their  first  interview  with  the  chief  of 
the  republican  party." 

"  Who  is  this  chief?  Name  him,  or  I  will  call  you  a  liar 
and  impostor!" 

"  This  chief,"  said  Fouche,  slowly,  and  measuring  every 
word,  "  this  chief  is  General  Moreau." 

Bonaparte  uttered  a  low  cry,  an  ashy  paleness  suffused 
his  cheeks;  he  pressed  his  lips  together,  and  his  eyes  flamed 
out  such  darts  of  rage  that  even  Fouch6  trembled  and 
lowered  his  gaze. 

"Moreau,"    muttered   Bonaparte,    after  a  long  pause, 
"  Moreau  a  conspirator,  a  traitor !     Moreau  in  an  alliance 
with  assassins  whom  the  royalists  are  sending  out  against 
35 

V 


540  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

me!  I  knew  very  well  that  he  was  my  enemy,  but  I  did 
not  think  that  his  enmity  would  lead  him  to  be  a  murderer !" 

He  walked  up  and  down  with  quick  steps,  his  hands 
folded  behind  his  back,  then  stopped  short  before  Fouche 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Fouche,  do  you  abide  by  your  assertion,  that  Moreau 
is  a  conspirator?" 

"  I  abide  by  it,  general." 

"  And  those  fifty  assassins,  whom  the  royalists  have  sent, 
are  in  Paris?" 

"  Yes,  general,  they  are  in  Paris,  and  Georges  and  Piche- 
gru  are  at  their  head." 

"Fouche,"  cried  Bonaparte,  clinching  his  fist  and  rais- 
ing it  threateningly,  "  Fouche,  so  sure  as  God  lives,  I  will 
have  you  hanged  as  a  traitor  if  you  have  lied!" 

"  General,  as  surely  as  God  lives,  I  have  spoken  the 
truth.  I  came  here  to  show  you  what  I  am,  and  what 
Regnier  is.  I  have  waited  here  till  the  whole  net  of  these 
conspiracies  should  be  spread  out  and  be  fully  complete. 
The  time  has  come  when  I  must  speak ;  and  now  I  say  to 
you,  general,  take  some  steps,  for  there  is  danger  on  foot!" 

Bonaparte,  trembling  with  emotion,  had  thrown  him- 
self into  an  arm-chair,  and  took,  as  was  his  custom  in  mo- 
ments of  the  greatest  excitement,  his  penknife  from  the 
writing-desk,  and  began  to  whittle  on  the  back  of  the 
chair. 

Fouch6  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  looked  with 
complete  calmness  and  an  invisible  smile  at  this  singular 
occupation  of  the  general,  when  the  door  of  the  cabinet 
was  opened,  and  the  Mameluke  Roustan  appeared  at  the 
entrance. 

"Consul,"  he  said,  softly,  "Councillor  Real  is  again 
here,  and  pressingly  desires  an  audience." 

Bonaparte  rose,  and  threw  away  the  knife.  "Real!"  he 
cried  in  a  loud  tone. 

The  man  who  was  summoned  immediately  appeared  at 
the  open  door — a  tall,  grave  personage,  with  a  face  so  pale 
and  distorted  that  Bonaparte  noticed  it,  despite  his  great 
agitation. 

"What  is  it,  Real?"  he  asked,  eagerly.  "Have  you 
spoken  with  the  condemned  man?" 


FOUCH&  541 

"  Yes,  general,  I  have  spoken  with  him,"  whispered  Real, 
with  pale  lips. 

"And  it  is  as  I  said,  is  it  not?  This  Doctor  Querolle 
has  only  pretended  to  be  able  to  make  great  disclosures, 
only  to  prolong  his  own  life  a  few  hours.  He  has  poisoned 
his  wife,  in  order  to  marry  his  mistress,  and  the  poisoner 
is  executed." 

"  General,"  cried  Fouche,  almost  with  an  air  of  joy,  "  I 
knew  Querolle,  and  I  knew  that  his  wife  poisoned  herself. 
Querolle  is  not  a  poisoner." 

"What  is  he  then,  M.  Omniscience?" 

"  General,  he  is  a  conspirator!" 

"A  conspirator! "repeated  Bonaparte,  and  now  his  trou- 
bled face  turned  again  to  the  councillor.  "  Real,  what  do 
you  know?  What  did  the  condemned  man  say  to  you?" 

"  Consul,  he  swore  that  he  was  innocent  of  the  death  of 
his  wife,  but  he  acknowledged  himself  a  member  of  a  con- 
spiracy, the  object  of  which  is  to  murder  General  Bona- 
parte. He  asserts  that  the  royalists  and  republicans  have 
allied  themselves;  that  fifty  emissaries  of  the  Count  de 
Lille  and  the  Duke  d'Enghien,  Pichegru  and  Georges  at 
their  head,  have  crept  into  Paris ;  that  they  had  an  inter- 
view yesterday  with  General  Moreau,  and  with  the  so-called 
King  Louis  XVII.,  who  is  secreted  in  Paris,  and  that  at 
this  hour  those  fifty  men  are  prowling  around  the  streets 
of  the  city,  and  are  watching  the  Tuileries,  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  kill  the  First  Consul." 

The  troubled  eye  of  Bonaparte  turned  slowly  from  the 
pale  face  of  Councillor  Real  to  the  calm,  sagacious  face  of 
Fouche,  which  guarded  itself  well  from  expressing  any 
token  of  triumph  and  satisfaction.  The  consul  then 
walked  slowly  through  the  room,  and  with  his  foot  pushed 
open  the  door  leading  into  the  great  reception-room,  in 
which,  at  this  hour  every  day,  all  the  dignitaries  of  the  re- 
public were  assembled,  to  receive  the  orders  of  Bonaparte. 

"Murat!"  cried  Bonaparte,  loudly;  and  at  once  the  per- 
son summoned,  General  Murat,  at  that  time  governor  of 
Paris,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  cabinet. 

"  Murat,"  said  Bonaparte,  in  the  tones  in  which  he  issued 
his  commands  on  the  battle-field,  "  give  orders  at  once  that 
the  gates  of  Paris  be  closed,  and  that  no  stranger  be  al- 


542  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

lowed  to  go  out  of  the  city  till  you  have  further  orders. 
You  will  come  to  me  in  an  hour,  and  receive  a  procla- 
mation to  your  soldiers,  which  you  will  sign ;  have  it  printed 
and  posted  at  the  street-corners  of  Paris.  Make  all  these 
preparations!  Go!" 

Murat  withdrew  from  the  room  with  a  salutation  of 
deference,  and  now  the  commanding  voice  of  Bonaparte 
summoned  his  chief  adjutant  from  the  reception-room. 

"Duroc,"  said  the  First  Consul,  with  calm,  almost  sol- 
emn voice,  "you  will  go  with  twelve  soldiers  in  pursuit  of 
General  Moreau,  and  arrest  him  wherever  you  find  him." 

The  noble,  open  face  of  Duroc  grew  pale,  and  put  on  an 
expression  of  horror  and  amazement.  "  General,"  he  whis- 
pered, "  I  beg  that — " 

But  this  time  Bonaparte  would  not  listen  to  the  soothing 
words  of  his  favorite. 

"No  replies!"  he  thundered.  "You  have  only  to  obey! 
Nothing  more !" 

Duroc,  pale  and  agitated,  withdrew,  and  Bonaparte 
closed  the  door  of  the  cabinet.  "Eeal,"  he  said,  "return 
to  the  prison  of  the  condemned  man ;  take  him  his  pardon, 
and  bring  him  to  me,  that  I  may  hear  him  myself. 
Hasten!" 

K6al  withdrew,  and  Bonaparte  and  Fouche  remained 
alone. 

"  You  have  given  your  proofs,  Fouche,  and  now  I  believe 
you.  When  wolves  are  to  be  hunted  down  you  are  a  good 
bloodhound,  and  we  will  begin  the  chase.  I  make  you 
from  this  moment  chief  of  the  secret  police ;  your  first  duty 
will  be  to  bring  this  matter  to  an  end,  and  help  me  to  tear 
to  pieces  the  whole  murderous  web,  your  reward  being  that 
I  will  nominate  you  again  minister  of  police.*  I  will  ful- 
fil my  promise  so  soon  as  you  shall  have  made  good  yours, 
and  put  me  in  possession  of  the  chief  conspirators." 

"You  have  just  arrested  Moreau,  general,"  replied  Fou- 
che, deferentially.  "  I  give  you  my  word  that  in  a  few 
hours  Pichegru  and  Georges  will  be  apprehended." 

"You  forget  the  chief  person,"  cried  Bonaparte,  over 
whose  brazen  forehead  a  thunder-cloud  seemed  to  pass. 

*  The  appointment  of  Fouch6  as  the  chief  of  police  took  place  in  June  of 
the  year  1804. 


JOSEPHINE.  543 

"  You  forget  the  caricature  of  buried  royalty,  the  so-called 
King  Louis  XVII.  Hush!  I  tell  you  I  will  have  this 
man.  I  will  draw  out  the  fangs  of  this  royal  adder,  so 
that  he  cannot  bite  any  more!  Bring  the  man  before  me. 
The  republic  is  an  angry  goddess,  and  demands  a  royal 
offering.  Give  this  impostor  into  my  hands,  or  something 
worse  will  happen !  Go,  and  I  advise  you  to  bring  me,  be- 
fore the  sun  goes  down,  the  tidings  that  this  fabled  King 
Louis  is  arrested,  or  the  sun  of  your  good  fortune  is  set 
forever !  Now  away !  Go  out  through  the  little  corridor, 
and  then  through  the  secret  gate — you  know  the  way. 
Go!" 

Fouche  did  not  dare  to  contradict  the  imperative  order, 
but  softly  and  hastily  moved  toward  the  curtain  which  led 
to  the  gloomy  anteroom,  and  thence  through  a  door,  which 
only  those  initiated  knew  how  to  open,  and  which  led  to 
the  little  corridor. 

But  scarcely  had  Fouche  entered  this  little  dismal  room, 
when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  a  woman's  voice 
whispered  to  him : 

"  I  must  speak  to  you — at  once!     Come!  this  way!" 

The  hand  drew  him  forward  to  the  wall,  a  door  sprang 
open  without  sound,  and  the  voice  whispered:  "  Four  stairs 
down.  Be  careful!" 


CHAPTEK    XXXII. 

JOSEPHINE. 

FOUCHE  did  not  hesitate ;  he  followed  his  guide  down  the 
little  staircase,  along  the  dark  corridor,  and  up  another 
short  staircase.  He  had  recognized  the  voice,  and  knew 
that  his  leader  was  no  other  than  Josephine,  the  wife  of 
the  First  Consul. 

Through  the  secret  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  they 
entered  a  small  and  gloomy  antechamber,  exactly  like  the 
one  which  adjoined  the  cabinet  of  the  consul,  and  from  it 
Josephine  ushered  Fouche  into  her  cabinet. 

"  You  will  say  nothing  to  Bonaparte  about  this  secret 
way,  Fouche,"  said  Josephine,  with  a  gentle,  supplicatory 


544  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

tone.  "  He  does  not  know  of  it.  I  have  had  it  made 
without  his  knowledge  while  he  was  in  Boulogne  last  year. 
Will  you  swear  to  me  that  you  will  not  reveal  it?" 

"  I  do  swear,  madame." 

"  God  knows  that  I  have  not  had  it  made  out  of  curiosity 
to  overhear  Bonaparte,"  continued  Josephine.  "But  it  is 
necessary  sometimes  for  me  to  know  what  is  going  on,  and 
that  when  the  general  is  angry  I  should  hasten  to  him  to 
calm  him  and  turn  aside  his  wrath.  I  have  warded  off 
many  a  calamity  since  this  private  way  was  opened,  and  I 
have  been  able  to  overhear  Bonaparte.  But  what  have  I 
been  compelled  to  listen  to  to-day!  Oh,  Fouche,  it  was 
God  Himself  who  impelled  me  to  listen !  I  was  with  him 
when  you  were  announced,  and  I  suspected  that  your  visit 
purported  something  unusual,  something  dreadful.  I  have 
heard  all,  Fouche — all,  I  tell  you !  I  know  that  his  life  is 
threatened,  that  fifty  daggers  are  directed  toward  him. 

0  God !  this  perpetual  fear  and  excitement  will  kill  me ! 

1  have  no  peace  of  mind,  no  rest  more!     Since  the  un- 
happy day  when  we  left  our  dear  little  house  to  live  in  the 
Tuileries,  since  that  day  there  has  been  an  end  to  all  joy ! 
Why  did  we  do  it?  why  did  we  not  remain  in  our  little 
Luxembourg?  why  have  we  been  persuaded  to  live  in  the 
palace  of  the  kings?" 

"  It  is  proper  for  the  greatest  man  in  France  to  live  in  the 
house  where  the  departed  race  of  kings  once  had  their 
home,"  replied  Fouche. 

"Oh,  yes,"  sighed  Josephine.  "I  know  these  tricks  of 
speech,  with  which  you  have  turned  the  head  of  my  poor 
Bonaparte.  Oh!  you,  you,  his  flatterer,  you  who  urged 
him  on,  will  bear  the  blame  if  misfortune  breaks  in  upon 
us !  You  have  intoxicated  him  with  the  incense  of  adu- 
lation ;  you  pour  into  his  veins  daily  and  hourly  the  sweet 
poison  which  is  to  destroy  our  happiness  and  our  peace ! 
He  was  so  good,  so  cheerful,  so  happy,  my  Bonaparte!  He 
was  contented  with  the  laurels  which  victory  laid  upon  his 
brow,  but  you  continued  to  whisper  in  his  ear  that  a  crown 
would  add  new  grace  to  his  laurels.  You  flattered  his 
ambition;  and  what  was  quietly  sleeping  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  and  what  I  hushed  with  my  kisses  and  with  my 
hand,  that  you  took  all  efforts  to  bring  out  into  the  light : 


JOSEPHINE.  545 

his  vanity — his  love  of  power!  Oh,  Fouche!  you  are 
wicked,  cruel,  and  pitiless!  I  hate,  I  abhor  you  all,  for 
you  are  the  murderers  of  my  Bonaparte!" 

She  spoke  all  this  softly,  with  quick  breath,  while  the 
tears  were  streaming  over  her  beautiful  face,  and  her  whole 
frame  trembled  with  emotion.  She  then  sank,  wholly 
overcome,  upon  a  lounge,  and  pressed  her  small  hands, 
sparkling  with  jewels,  over  her  eyes. 

"  Madame,  you  are  unjust,"  replied  Fouche,  softly.  "  If 
you  have  overheard  my  conversation  with  the  First  Consul, 
you  are  aware  that  the  direct  object  of  my  coming  was  to 
save  him  from  murderers,  and  to  insure  his  precious 
life." 

"And,  moreover,  to  pour  into  his  ear  the  poison  of 
a  future  imperial  crown!"  said  Josephine,  indignantly. 
"  Oh,  I  know  it !  With  talk  of  conspiracies  and  of  daggers 
you  urged  him  on.  You  want  him  to  be  an  emperor,  that 
you  may  be  a  prince  or  duke!  I  see  it  all,  and  I  cannot 
prevent  it,  for  he  no  longer  listens  to  me,  he  no  longer 
heeds  the  voice  of  his  Josephine,  only  that  of  his  ambitious 
flatterers,  and  he  will  put  on  the  imperial  crown  and  com- 
plete our  misfortune!  Oh!  I  knew  it!  This  imperial 
crown  will  ruin  us.  It  was  prophesied  to  me  in  my  youth 
that  I  should  be  an  empress,  but  it  was  added  that  it 
would  be  for  no  long  time.  And  yet  I  should  like  to  live, 
and  I  should  like  to  be  happy  still!" 

"You  will  be  so,  madame,"  said  Fouche,  with  a  smile. 
"  It  is  always  good  fortune  to  wear  an  imperial  crown,  and 
your  beautiful  head  is  worthy  to  bear  one." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  angrily.  "Do  not  try  me  with 
your  flatteries!  I  am  contented  with  being  a  beloved  and 
happy  wife;  I  desire  no  crown.  The  crowned  heads  that 
have  dwelt  in  the  Tuileries  have  become  the  prey  of  de- 
struction, and  the  pearls  of  their  diadems  have  been  changed 
to  tears!  But  what  advantage  is  it  that  I  should  say  all 
this  to  you?  It  is  all  in  vain,  in  vain!  I  did  not  bring 
you  to  talk  of  this.  It  was  something  entirely  different. 
Listen,  Fouch6,  I  cannot  prevent  Bonaparte's  becoming  an 
emperor,  but  you  shall  not  make  him  a  regicide!  I  will 
not  suffer  it!  By  Heaven,  and  all  the  holy  angels,  I  will 
not  suffer  it!" 


546  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  madame.  I  do  not  know 
what  you  mean." 

"  Oh,  you  understand  me  very  well,  Fouche.  You  know 
that  I  am  speaking  of  King  Louis  XVII." 

"Ah,  madame,  you  are  speaking  of  the  impostor,  who 
gives  himself  out  to  be  the  'orphan  of  the  Temple.'  " 

"  He  is  it,  Fouche.  I  know  it,  I  am  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  his  flight.  I  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Con- 
ciergerie  at  the  same  time  with  Toulan,  the  queen's  loyal 
servant.  He  knew  my  devotion  to  the  unhappy  Marie 
Antoinette ;  he  intrusted  to  me  his  secret  of  the  dauphin's 
escape.  Later,  when  I  was  released,  Tallien  and  Barras 
confirmed  the  story  of  his  flight,  and  informed  me  that  he 
was  secreted  by  the  Prince  de  Conde.  I  have  known  it  all, 
and  I  tell  you  I  knew  who  Kleber's  adjutant  was;  I  in- 
quired for  him  after  he  disappeared  at  the  battle  of 
Marengo,  and  when  my  agents  told  me  that  the  young 
king  died  there,  I  wore  mourning  and  prayed  for  him. 
And,  now  that  I  learn  that  the  son  of  my  beautiful  queen 
is  still  alive,  shall  I  suffer  him  to  die  like  a  traitor?  No, 
never!  Fouche,  I  tell  you  I  will  never  suffer  it;  I  will  not 
have  this  unfortunate  young  man  sacrificed !  You  must 
save  him — I  will  have  it  so!" 

"I!"  cried  Fouche,  in  amazement.  "But  you  know 
that  it  is  impossible,  for  you  have  heard  my  conversation 
with  the  consul.  He  himself  said,  'The  republic  demands 
a  royal  victim.  If  it  is  not  this  so-called  King  Louis,  let 
it  be  the  Duke  d'Enghien,  for  a  victim  must  fall,  in  order 
to  intimidate  the  royalists,  and  bring  peace  at  last. ' ' 

"But  I  will  not  have  you  bring  human  victims,"  cried 
Josephine ;  "  the  republic  shall  no  longer  be  a  cruel  Mo- 
loch, as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  guillotine.  You  shall, 
and  you  must,  save  the  son  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  I 
desire  to  have  peace  in  my  conscience,  that  I  may  live  with- 
out reproach,  and  be  happier  perhaps  than  now." 

"But  it  is  impossible,"  insisted  Fouche.  "You  have 
heard  yourself  that  if,  before  the  sun  goes  down,  Louis  be 
not  imprisoned,  the  sun  of  my  good  fortune  will  have  set." 

"  And  I  told  you,  Fouche,  that  if  you  do  this — if  you 
become  a  regicide  a  second  time — I  will  be  your  unappeas- 
able enemy  your  whole  life  long;  I  will  undertake  to  avenge 


JOSEPHINE.  547 

on  you  the  death  of  the  queen  and  her  son ;  I  will  follow 
your  every  step  with  my  hate,  and  Avill  not  rest  till  I  have 
overthrown  you.  And  you  know  well  that  Bonaparte  loves 
me,  that  I  have  influence  with  him,  and  that  what  I  mean 
to  do,  I  accomplish  at  last  by  prayers,  tears,  and  frowns. 
So  do  not  exasperate  me,  Fouche;  do  not  make  me  your 
irreconcilable  enemy.  Save  the  son  of  the  king  whom  you 
killed,  conciliate  the  shades  of  his  unhappy  parents.  Fou- 
che, we  are  in  the  cabinet  of  the  queen !  Here  she  often 
tarried,  here  she  often  pressed  her  son  to  her  heart,  and 
asked  God's  blessing  on  him.  Fouche,  the  spirit  of  Marie 
Antoinette  is  with  us,  and  she  will  know  it  if  you  in  pity 
spare  the  life  of  her  son.  Marie  Antoinette  will  accuse  you 
at  the  throne  of  God,  and  plead  with  God  to  show  you  no 
compassion,  if  you  refuse  to  be  merciful  to  her  son.  Fou- 
che, in -the  name  of  the  queen — on  my  knees— I  implore 
you,  save  her  son!" 

And  Josephine,  her  face  bathed  in  tears,  sank  before 
him  and  raised  her  folded  hands  suppliantly  to  Fouche. 
The  minister,  deeply  moved,  pale  with  the  recollections 
which  Josephine  awakened  within  him,  stooped  down  to 
her,  and  bade  her  arise ;  and  when  she  refused,  and  begged 
and  threatened,  and  wept,  his  obstinacy  was  at  last 
touched,  or  perhaps  his  prudence,  which  counselled  him  to 
make  a  friend,  rather  than  an  enemy,  out  of  the  all-power- 
ful wife  of  the  future  emperor. 

"Kise,  madame,"  he  said.  "What  mortal  is  able  to  re- 
sist your  requests,  since  Bonaparte  himself  cannot?  I 
will  save  your  protege,  whatever  shall  come  to  me  after- 
ward from  it." 

She  sprang  up,  and  in  the  wildness  of  her  joy  threw  her 
beautiful  arms  around  Fouche's  neck,  and  kissed  him. 
" Fouche,"  she  said,  "I  give  you  this  kiss  in  the  name  of 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  It  is  a  kiss  of  forgiveness,  and 
of  blessing.  You  swear  to  me  that  you  will  save  him?" 

"  I  swear  it,  madame!" 

"  And  I  swear  to  you  that  as  soon  as  he  is  saved,  and 
Bonaparte's  anger  can  no  longer  reach  him,  I  will  confess 
all  to  my  husband,  and  put  it  in  such  a  light  that  Bona- 
parte shall  thank  and  reward  you.  Now  tell  me,  how  you 
will  save  him." 


548  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

"  I  shall  only  be  able  if  you  will  help  me,  madame." 

"  I  am  ready  for  any  thing — that  you  know  well.  Tell 
pie  what  I  shall  do." 

"  You  must  yourself  direct  a  few  lines  to  the  young  man, 
conjuring  him  in  the  name  of  his  mother  to  fly,  to  save  him- 
self from  the  anger  of  the  First  Consul — to  leave  Europe." 

"Oh!  Fouche,  how  sly  you  are!"  said  Josephine,  sadly. 
"  You  want  my  handwriting,  in  order  to  justify  yourself  to 
the  First  Consul  in  case  of  emergency.  Very  good.  I  will 
write  the  billet." 

She  hastened  to  her  table,  dashed  a  few  words  upon 
paper,  and  then  passed  the  note  to  Fouche.  "  Eead  it," 
she  said;  "  it  contains  all  that  is  necessary,  does  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  madame ;  and  you  have  written  in  such  beautiful 
and  moving  words,  that  the  young  man  will  be  melted,  and 
will  obey  you.  Will  you  now  have  the  goodness  to  put  the 
note  in  an  envelope  and  to  address  it?" 

She  folded  it,  and  put  it  into  an  envelope.  "  To  whom 
shall  I  address  it?"  she  then  asked. 

"Address  it  to  King  Louis  XVII." 

She  did  so  with  a  quick  stroke  of  the  pen  and  handed 
the  letter  to  Fouche.  "  Take  it,"  she  said,  "  it  is  your  jus- 
tification. And  in  order  that  you  may  be  entirely  secure," 
she  continued,  with  a  slight  smile,  "  retain  this  letter  your- 
self. What  I  would  say  to  this  young  man  I  would  rather 
communicate  by  word  of  mouth." 

"How,"  cried  Fouche,  "you  want — " 

"  To  see  and  speak  with  the  king,"  she  said,  sorrowfully, 
"  to  beg  his  forgiveness  for  myself  and  Bonaparte.  Hush ! 
do  not  oppose  me,  I  am  resolved  upon  it.  I  want  to  see 
the  young  man." 

"  But  he  cannot  come  here,  madame — here,  into  the  very 
den  of  the  lion." 

"No,  not  here,  into  the  desecrated  palace  of  the  kings," 
she  answered,  bitterly.  "No,  he  cannot  come  here — I 
shall  go  to  him." 

"  You  are  jesting,  madame,  it  is  impossible.  You,  the 
wife  of  the  First  Consul,  you  will — " 

"  I  want  to  fulfil  a  duty  of  gratitude  and  of  loyalty,  Fou- 
che. In  my  heart  I  still  feel  myself  the  subject  of  the 
queen.  Let  me  follow  the  call  of  my  heart!  Listen!  My 


JOSEPHINE.  549 

carriage  stands  ready.  I  was  intending  to  drive  to  my 
friend  Madame  Tallien.  I  will  take  a  pleasure-drive  in- 
stead. In  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  I  will  cause  the  carriage 
to  stop,  send  it  away,  and  return  on  foot.  You  will  await 
in  there  with  a  fiacre  and  take  me  to  the  king." 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  said  Fouche.  "  Your  will  shall  be  my 
law.  I  only  ask  that  you  hasten,  for  you  know  well  that 
I  have  much  to  do  to-day.  I  shall  take  advantage  of  the 
time  to  procure  for  the  young  man  the  necessary  passports 
for  travel.  But,  madame,  you  must  help  him  leave  the 
city.  For  you  know  that  the  gates  are  all  closed." 

"  I  will  tell  Bonaparte  that  I  am  troubled  to  be  in  the 
city,  now  that  it  is  so  shut  in.  I  will  drive  out  to  St. 
Cloud.  His  carriage  can  follow  mine,  and  if  the  gate- 
keeper puts  hinderances  in  the  way,  I  will  command  him 
to  let  Louis  pass.  Now  let  us  hasten !" 

An  hour  later  Josephine,  after  dismissing  her  equipage 
with  the  servants,  entered  the  fiacre  which  was  waiting  for 
her  near  the  fountain.  Fouche  received  her  there,  and 
was  unwearied  in  his  complaints  of  the  poor  carriage  which 
the  wife  of  the  First  Consul  must  use. 

Josephine  smiled,  "My  dear  sir,"  she  said,  "there  have 
been  times  when  I  should  have  been  very  proud  and  very 
happy  to  have  had  such  a  fiacre  as  this,  and  not  to  have 
been  compelled  to  walk  through  the  muddy  streets  of  Paris. 
Let  it  be  as  it  is!  The  present  days  of  superfluity  have 
not  made  me  proud,  and  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the 
past.  But  tell  me,  Fouche,  whither  are  we  driving,  and 
where  does  the  young  king  live?" 

"  We  are  driving,  if  you  graciously  approve  of  it,  to  my 
house,  and  I  have  brought  the  young  man  there,  for  in  his 
own  house  he  is  no  longer  safe.  I  have  had  it  surrounded 
by  agents  of  the  secret  police,  with  orders  to  arrest  him  on 
his  return.  He  will,  of  course,  not  return,  and  it  will  be 
easier  to  assume  the  appearance  that  he  received  an  intima- 
tion of  his  peril  and  escaped  in  season.  But  here  we  are 
before  my  door,  and  if  you  will  draw  the  thick  veil  which 
happily  you  have  fastened  to  your  bonnet,  carefully  before 
your  face,  I  hope  that  no  one  will  see  that  the  most  beauti- 
ful lady  in  Paris  honors  my'  house  with  her  distinguished 
presence." 


550  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

Josephine  made  no  reply  to  this  flattery,  but  drew  the 
black  lace  veil  closely  over  her  face,  and  hastened  to  leave 
the  fiacre,  and  entered  the  house. 

"Fouche,"  she  whispered,  as  she  ascended  the  staircase, 
"  my  heart  beats  as  violently  as  it  did  when  I  drove  to  the 
Tuileries  to  be  presented  to  Marie  Antoinette.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  spoke  with  the  Queen  of  France." 

"And  now,  madame,"  said  Fouche,  with  a  smile,  "you 
will  speak  with  the  last  King  of  France." 

"  Does  he  know  who  I  am?" 

"No,  madame;  I  have  left  it  to  you  to  inform  him. 
Here  we  are  at  the  saloon — he  is  within !" 

"  Wait  only  a  moment,  Fouche.  I  must  collect  myself. 
My  heart  beats  dreadfully.  Now,  now  you  may  open  the 
door!" 

They  entered  the  little  saloon.  Josephine  stood  still 
near  the  door,  and  while  she  hastily  removed  her  bonnet 
and  the  thick  veil  and  handed  them  to  Fouch<3,  her  large, 
brilliant,  brown  eyes  were  turned  to  the  young  man  who 
stood  in  the  window-niche,  his  hands  calmly  folded  over 
his  breast.  In  this  attitude,  with  the  calm  look  of  his 
face,  the  gentle  glance  of  his  blue  eyes,  he  bore  so  close  a 
resemblance  to  the  pictures  which  represented  Louis  XVI. 
in  his  youth,  that  Josephine  could  not  repress  a  cry  of  sur- 
prise, and  hastened  forward  to  the  young  man,  who  now 
advanced  out  of  the  window  recess.  "Madame,"  he  said, 
bowing  low  before  this  beautiful  and  dignified  lady  whom 
he  did  not  know,  but  whose  sympathizing  face  made  his 
heart  tremble — "  madame,  doubtless  you  are  the  lady  whom 
M.  Fouche  said  I  might  expect  to  meet  here." 

"Yes,  I  am  she,"  replied  Josephine,  with  a  voice  trem- 
bling with  emotion,  her  eyes,  flooded  with  tears,  all  the 
while  being  fixed  on  the  grave,  youthful  face  which 
brought  back  so  many  memories  of  the  past.  "  I  have 
come  to  see  you  and  to  bring  you  the  greetings  of  a  man 
whom  you  loved,  who  revered  you,  and  who  died  blessing 
you." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak?"  asked  Louis,  turning  pale. 

"  Men  called  him  Toulan,"  whispered  Josephine.  "  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette  termed  him  Fiddle." 

"Fiddle!"  cried  Louis,  in  a  tone  of  anguish.     "Fiddle 


JOSEPHINE.  551 

is  dead ! — my  deliverer,  he  whose  fidelity  and  bravery  re- 
leased me  from  my  dreadful  prison.  Oh,  madame,  what 
sad  thoughts  do  you  bring  back  with  his  name!" 

Josephine  turned  with  a  triumphant  look  to  Fouche, 
who  was  still  standing  behind  her  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  door.  Her  look  said,  "  You  see  he  is  no  traitor,  he  has 
stood  the  proof." 

Fouche  understood  the  language  of  this  look  perfectly, 
and  a  smile  played  over  his  features.  Then  Josephine 
turned  again  to  the  young  man. 

"You  did  not  know  that  Toulan  was  dead?"  she  asked, 
softly. 

"How  could  I  know  it?"  he  cried,  bitterly.  "I  was 
taken  at  that  time  to  a  solitary  castle,  where  I  remained 
several  years,  and  then  I  went  to  Germany,  and  from  that 
time  I  have  always  lived  in  foreign  parts.  Since  I  have 
been  in  Paris  I  have  made  the  effort  to  learn  something 
about  him,  but  no  one  could  inform  me,  and  so  I  solaced 
myself  with  the  hope  that  he  had  really  gone  to  America, 
for  that  was  his  object,  as  the  other  gentleman  who  assisted 
me  in  my  release  informed  me  at  that  time." 

"This  other  gentleman,"  said  Josephine,  softly,  "was 
the  Baron  de  Jarjayes,  and  the  child  who  was  carried  into 
the  Temple  was  the — " 

"The  son  of  the  Count  de  Frotte,"  rejoined  Louis. 

" Fouche,  it  is  he !"  cried  Josephine.  "It  is  the  son  of 
my  noble,  unfortunate  Queen  Marie  Antoinette. — Oh,  sire, 
let  me  testify  my  homage  to  you,  as  becomes  a  subject  when 
she  stands  before  her  king.  Sire,  I  bow  my  knee  before 
you,  and  I  would  gladly  pour  out  my  whole  life  in  tears, 
and  with  each  of  these  tears  beg  your  forgiveness  for 
France,  for  us  all." 

And  the  beautiful,  passionate  Creole  sank  upon  her  knee, 
and  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  the  young  man  who,  per- 
plexed and  blushing,  gazed  at  her,  then  hastily  stooped  to 
her  and  conjured  her  to  rise. 

"  Not,  sire,"  she  cried,  "  until  you  tell  me  that  you  have 
forgiven  me — that  you  have  forgiven  us  all." 

"  I  forgive  you?  What  have  I  to  forgive  in  you?  Mon- 
sieur Fouche,  who  is  this  lady  who  knows  me  and  my  des- 
tinies, and  who  brings  me  greetings  from  Fidele?  What 


552  MAEIE   ANTOINETTE   AND    HER   SON. 

have  I  to  forgive  in  her?  Who  is  she?  Tell  me  her 
name?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  Fouche,  slowly  approaching,  "this 
lady  is — " 

"Hush!  Fouche,  I  will  tell  him  myself,"  interrupted 
Josephine.  "  Sire,  when  your  beautiful,  exalted  mother 
was  still  living  in  Versailles,  I  had  the  honor  to  be  pre- 
sented to  her,  both  at  the  grand  receptions  and  at  the 
minor  ones.  One  day — it  was  already  in  the  unhappy 
Reign  of  Terror — when  the  queen  had  left  Versailles  and 
Trianon,  and  was  already  living  in  the  Tuileries,  I  went 
thither  to  pay  my  respects." 

"That  is  to  say,  madame,"  cried  Louis,  "you  were  a 
brave  and  loyal  woman,  for  only  the  brave  and  the  loyal 
ventured  then  to  go  to  the  Tuileries.  Oh,  speak  on !  speak 
on !  You  wanted  to  pay  your  respects  to  the  queen,  you 
were  saying;  she  received  you,  did  she  not?  You  were 
taken  into  the  little  saffron  saloon?" 

"  No,  sire,  the  queen  was  not  there,  she  was  in  the  little 
music-hall;  and,  because  a.t  that  time  etiquette  was  no 
longer  rigidly  enforced,  I  was  allowed  to  accompany  the 
Marchioness  de  Tourzel  into  the  music-room.  The  queen 
did  not  notice  our  entrance,  for  she  was  singing.  I  re- 
mained standing  at  the  door,  and  contemplated  the  won- 
drous picture  that  I  saw  there.  The  queen,  in  a  simple 
white  dress,  her  light  brown,  slightly  powdered  hair  con- 
cealed by  a  black  lace  head-dress,  sat  at  the  spinet  on 
which  her  white  hands  rested.  Near  her  in  the  window- 
niche  sat  madame,  engaged  with  her  embroidery.  Very 
near  her  sat,  in  a  little  arm-chair,  a  boy  of  five  years,  a 
lovely  child,  with  long  golden  locks,  with  large  blue  eyes, 
and  looking  like  an  angel.  The  little  hands,  surrounded 
by  lace  wristbands,  leaned  on  the  support  of  the  chair, 
while  his  looks  rested  incessantly  upon  the  countenance  of 
the  queen,  and  his  whole  child's  soul  was  absorbed  in  the 
gaze  which  he  directed  to  his  mother.  The  queen  was 
singing,  and  the  tones  of  her  soulful  voice  resound  still  in 
my  heart.  The  song  was  this: 

'  Dors,  mon  enfant,  clos  ta  paupiere, 
Tes  cris  me  dechirent  le  coeur ; 
Dors,  mon  enfant,  ta  pauvre  mere 
A  bien  assez  de  sa  douleur. ' 


JOSEPHINE.  553 

And  while  she  sang  she  turned  her  head  toward  her  son, 
who  listened  to  her  motionless  and  as  if  enchanted.  'See,' 
cried  madame,  the  sister  of  the  pretty  boy,  'I  believe 
Louis  Charles  has  fallen  asleep.'  The  child  started  up, 
and  a  glowing  redness  suffused  his  cheeks.  '  Oh !  Theresa, ' 
he  cried,  'how  could  any  one  go  to  sleep  when  my  mamma 
queen  was  singing?'  His  mother  stooped  down  to  him, 
pressed  a  long  kiss  upon  his  brow,  and  a  tear  fell  from  her 
eyes  upon  his  golden  hair.  I  saw  it,  and  involuntarily  my 
eyes  filled ;  I  could  not  hold  back  my  tears,  and  went  softly 
out  to  compose  myself.  Sire,  I  see  you  still  before  me — 
this  beautiful  queen  and  her  children — and  it  is  with  me 
to-day  as  then,  I  must  weep." 

"And  I! — oh,  my  God! — and  I!"  whispered  Louis,  put- 
ting both  his  hands  before  his  quivering  face.  Even  Fou- 
che  seemed  moved,  his  lips  trembled  and  his  cheeks  grew 
pale. 

A  long  pause  ensued.  Nothing  was  heard  but  the  con- 
vulsive sobbing  of  the  young  man,  who  still  held  his  hands 
before  his  face,  and  wept  so  violently  that  the  tears  poured 
down  in  heavy  drops  between  his  fingers. 

"Sire,"  cried  Josephine,  with  supplicatory  voice — "sire, 
by  the  recollection  of  that  hour,  I  conjure  you,  forgive  me 
that  I  now  live  in  those  rooms  which  Marie  Antoinette  once 
inhabited.  Ah !  it  has  not  been  my  wish,  and  I  have  done 
it  only  with  pain  and  grief.  Believe  me,  sire,  and  forgive 
me  that  I  have  been  compelled  to  live  in  the  palace  of  the 
kings." 

He  took  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  gazed  at  her. 
"  You  live  in  the  Tuileries?  Who  are  you?  Madame,  who 
are  you?" 

"  Sire,  I  was  formerly  Viscountess  Beauharnais ;  now  I 
am — " 

"The  wife  of  the  First  Consul!"  exclaimed  the  prince, 
drawing  back  in  terror — "the  wife  of  him  who  is  pursuing 
me,  and  who,  as  Fouche  says,  means  to  bring  me  to  the 
scaffold." 

"  Oh,  sire,  forgive  him!"  implored  Josephine;  "he  is 
not  wicked,  he  is  not  cruel ;  but  circumstances  compel  him 
to  act  as  he  does.  God  Himself,  it  would  seem,  has  chosen 
him  to  restore,  with  his  heroic  sword  and  his  heroic  spirit, 


554  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

peace  and  prosperity  to  this  unfortunate  land,  bleeding 
from  a  thousand  wounds.  He  was  the  savior  of  France, 
and  the  grateful  nation  hailed  him  with  pseans,  and  full  of 
confidence  laid  the  reins  of  government  in  his  hands. 
Through  his  victories  and  his  administration  of  affairs, 
France  has  again  grown  stfong  and  great  and  happy ;  and 
yet  he  is  daily  threatened  by  assassins,  yet  there  are  con- 
tinual conspiracies  whose  aim  is  to  murder  the  man  to 
whom  France  is  indebted  for  its  new  birth.  What  wonder 
that  he  at  last,  to  put  an  end  to  these  conspiracies,  and 
these  attempts  upon  his  life,  will,  by  a  deed  of  horror,  in- 
spire the  conspirators  with  fear?  He  is  firmly  resolved  on 
this.  The  lion  has  been  aroused  from  his  calmness  by  new 
conspiracies,  and  the  shaking  of  his  mane  will  this  time 
annihilate  all  who  venture  to  conspire  against  him.  Sire, 
I  do  not  accuse  you ;  I  do  not  say  that  you  do  wrongly  to 
make  every  attempt  to  regain  the  inheritance  of  your 
fathers.  May  God  judge  between  you  and  your  enemies ! 
But  your  enemies  have  the  power  in  their  hands,  and  you 
must  yield  to  that  power.  Oh,  my  dear,  unfortunate, 
pitiable  lord,  I  conjure  you,  save  yourself  from  the  anger 
of  the  First  Consul,  and  from  the  pursuers  who  have  been 
sent  out  to  seek  you.  If  you  are  found,  you  are  lost,  and 
no  one  in  the  world  will  then  be  able  to  save  you.  Fly, 
therefore — fly,  while  there  is  still  time!" 

"Fly!"  cried  the  young  prince,  bitterly,  "evermore  fly! 
My  whole  life  is  a  perpetual  flight,  a  continuous  conceal- 
ment. Like  the  Wandering  Jew,  I  must  journey  from  land 
to  land — nowhere  can  I  rest,  nowhere  find  peace.  With- 
out a  home,  without  parents,  without  a  name,  I  wander 
around,  and,  like  a  hunted  wild  beast,  I  must  continually 
start  afresh,  for  the  hounds  are  close  behind  me.  Well, 
be  it  so,  then;  I  am  weary  of  defying  my  fate  longer;  I 
surrender  myself  to  what  is  inevitable.  The  First  Consul 
may  send  me  as  a  conspirator  to  the  scaffold.  I  am  pre- 
pared to  die.  I  shall  find  that  peace  in  death  at  least  that 
life  so  cruelly  denies  me.  I  will  not  fly — I  will  remain. 
The  example  of  my  parents  will  teach  me  how  to  die." 

"  Oh,  speak  not  so!"  exclaimed  Josephine.  "Have  pity 
on  me,  have  pity  on  yourself.  You  are  still  so  young,  life 
has  so  much  for  you  yet,  there  remains  so  much  to  you  yet 


JOSEPHINE.  555 

to  Rope  for.  You  must  live,  not  to  avenge  the  death  of 
your  illustrious  parents,  but  to  make  its  memory  less  poign- 
ant. Son  of  kings,  you  have  received  life  from  God,  and 
from  your  parents,  you  may  not  lightly  throw  it  away,  but 
must  defend  it,  for  the  blessing  of  your  mother  rests  upon 
your  head,  which  you  must  save  from  the  scaffold." 

"You  must  live,"  said  Fouche,  "for  your  death  would 
bring  joy  to  those  who  were  the  bitter  enemies  of  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette,  and  who  would  be  your  mocking  heirs. 
AVill  you  grant  to  the  Count  de  Lille  the  uncontested  right 
of  calling  himself  Louis  XVIII.  ? — the  Count  de  Lille,  who 
caused  Marie  Antoinette  to  shed  so  many  tears." 

The  prince  flamed  up  at  this,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"No,"  he  cried,  "the  Count  de  Lille  shall  not  have  this 
joy.  He  shall  not  rest  his  curse-laden  head  upon  the  pil- 
low with  the  calm  consciousness  that  he  will  be  the  king  of 
the  future.  My  vision  shall  disturb  his  sleep,  and  the  pos- 
sibility that  I  shall  return  and  demand  my  own  again,  shall 
be  the  terror  that  shall  keep  peace  far  from  him.  You  are 
right,  madame,  I  must  live.  The  spirit  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette hovers  over  me,  and  demands  that  I  live,  and  by  my 
life  avenge  her  of  her  most  bitter  enemy.  Let  it  be  so, 
then.  Tell  me,  Fouche,  whither  shall  I  go?  Where  shall 
the  poor  criminal  hide  himself,  whose  only  offence  lies  in 
this,  that  he  is  alive,  and  that  he  is  the  son  of  his  father? 
Where  is  there  a  cave  in  which  the  poor  hunted  game  can 
hide  himself  from  the  hounds?" 

"  Sire,  you  must  away,  away  into  foreign  lands.  The 
arm  of  the  First  Consul  is  powerful,  and  his  eagle  eye  scans 
all  Europe,  and  would  discover  you  at  any  point." 

"  You  must  for  the  present  find  a  home  beyond  the  sea," 
said  Fouche,  approaching  nearer.  "  I  have  already  taken 
measures  which  will  allow  you  to  do  so.  There  are  ships 
sailing  southward  from  Marseilles  every  day,  and  in  one  of 
these  you  must  go  to  America.  America  is  the  land  of 
freedom,  of  adventures,  and  of  great  deeds.  You  will  there 
find  sufficient  occupation  for  your  spirit  and  for  your  love 
of  work." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Louis,  with  a  bitter  smile;  "  I  will  go 
to  America.  I  will  find  a  refuge  with  the  savages.  Per- 
haps they  will  appoint  me  as  their  chieftain,  and  adorn 
36 


556  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

my  head  with  a  crown  of  feathers  instead  of  the  crown  of 
gold.  Yes,  I  will  go  to  America.  In  the  primeval  for- 
ests, with  the  children  of  nature,  there  will  be  a  home  for 
the  exile,  the  homeless  one.  Madame,  I  thank  you  for 
your  sympathy  and  your  goodness,  and  my  thanks  shall 
consist  in  this,  that  I  subject  myself  wholly  to  your  will. 
You  loved  Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  A  blessing  on  you, 
and  all  who  love  you." 

He  extended  both  his  hands  to  Josephine,  and,  as  she 
was  about  to  press  them  to  her  lips,  he  stooped  toward  her 
with  a  sad  smile. 

"  Madame,  bless  my  poor  brow  with  the  touch  of  those 
lips  which  once  kissed  the  hand  of  my  mother." 

Josephine  did  as  she  was  asked,  and  a  tear  fell  from  her 
eyes  upon  his  fair  hair. 

"Go,  sire,"  she  said,  "and  may  God  bless  and  protect 
you !  If  you  ever  need  my  help,  call  upon  me,  and  be  sure 
that  I  will  never  neglect  your  voice." 

An  hour  later  the  wife  of  the  First  Consul  drove  out  to 
St.  Cloud.  At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  St.  Honore  a  second 
carriage  joined  her  own,  and  a  young  man  who  sat  in  it 
greeted  Josephine  deferentially  as  she  leaned  far  out  of  the 
carriage  to  return  his  salute. 

At  the  barriers  the  carriage  stopped,  for  the  gates  of  the 
city  were  still  closed.  But  Josephine  beckoned  the  officer 
of  the  guard  to  her  carriage,  and,  fortunately,  he  knew  the 
wife  of  the  First  Consul. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  said  Josephine,  with  a  charming 
smile,  "  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  should  procure  a  permit 
from  the  First  Consul  to  allow  myself  and  my  escort  to  pa'ss 
the  gate?  You  do  not  suppose  that  I  and  my  secretary, 
who  sits  in  the  next  carriage,  belong  to  the  villains  who 
threaten  the  life  of  my  husband?" 

The  officer,  enchanted  with  the  grace  of  Josephine, 
bowed  low,  and  commanded  the  guard  instantly  to  open 
the  gate  and  allow  the  two  carriages  to  pass. 

And  so  the  son  of  the  queen  was  saved.  For  the  second 
time  he  left  Paris,  to  go  forth  as  an  exile  and  an  advent- 
urer to  meet  his  fate. 


AFTER   LONG   WANDERINGS.  557 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

AFTER    LONG     WANDERINGS. 

FOR  the  city  of  Paris  the  16th  of  February,  1804,  was 
a  day  of  terror.  The  gates  remained  closed  the  whole 
day,  military  patrols  passed  through  the  streets,  at  whose 
corners  the  proclamations  were  posted,  by  which  Murat, 
the  governor  of  Paris,  announced  to  the  city  that  fifty  as- 
sassins were  within  the  walls,  intent  on  taking  the  life  of 
the  First  Consul. 

The  condemned  surgeon,  Querolle,  had,  meantime,  made 
his  confession,  and  named  the  heads  of  the  conspiracy  and 
their  accomplices,  and,  only  after  all  the  persons  mentioned 
by  him  were  arrested,  were  the  gates  of  the  city  opened. 

A  great  trial  then  commenced  of  the  men  who  had  been 
sent  by  the  Bourbons  for  this  nefarious  purpose.  Among 
the  accused  were  General  Pichegru,  the  abettor  of  Georges, 
and  General  Moreau,  the  most  prominent  of  all. 

The  history  of  this  trial  was  enveloped  in  obscurity,  and 
it  was  faintly  whispered  that  Pichegru  had  taken  his  own 
life  in  prison,  and  more  faintly  yet  was  it  rumored  that  he 
was  secretly  dispatched  in  prison.  And  then,  on  one  of 
these  days,  there  were  to  be  seen  through  all  Paris  only 
pale,  sad  faces,  and  a  murmur  of  horror  ran  through  all 
the  streets  and  all  the  houses. 

The  story  was  current  that  the  Duke  d'Enghien,  the 
grandson  of  the  Prince  de  Conde,  had  been  arrested  by 
French  soldiers  at  Baden,  beyond  the  frontier,  and  had 
been  brought  to  Vincennes;  that  he  was  accused  there  that 
same  night  of  being  an  accomplice  in  a  plot  to  take  the 
life  of  the  First  Consul,  and  to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  re- 
public; that  he  was  quickly  condemned  by  a  court-martial, 
and  shot  before  morning  within  the  fortress  of  Vincennes. 

The  report  was  only  too  true.  Bonaparte  had  kept  his 
word ;  he  had  sacrificed  a  royal  victim  to  the  threatened 
cause  of  the  republic;  he  would,  by  one  deed  of  horror,  fill 
the  conspirators  with  fear,  and  cause  them  to  abandon  their 
bloody  plans. 

The  means  employed  were  cruel,  but  the  end  was  reached 


558  MARIE   ANTOINETTE    AND    HER   SON. 

which  Bonaparte  hoped  to  attain,  and  thenceforth  there 
were  no  more  conspiracies  against  the  life  of  the  First  Con- 
sul, who,  on  the  18th  of  May,  that  same  year,  declared 
himself  emperor. 

A  few  days  after  this,  the  public  trial  of  the  accused  be- 
gan, which  Fouche  attended  as  the  reinstalled  minister  of 
police,  and  over  which  Regnier  presided  in  his  new  capacity 
of  chief  judge. 

Seventeen  of  those  indicted  were  condemned  to  death, 
others  to  years  of  imprisonment,  and  among  these  was 
General  Moreau.  But  the  popular  voice  declared  itself  so 
loudly  and  energetically  for  the  brave  general  of  the  repub- 
lic, that  it  was  considered  expedient  to  heed  it.  Moreau 
was  released  from  prison,  and  went  to  the  Spanish  frontier, 
whence  he  sailed  to  North  America. 

On  the  25th  of  June,  twelve  of  the  conspirators,  Georges 
at  their  head,  were  executed ;  the  other  five,  who  had  been 
condemned  to  death,  had  their  sentence  commuted  to 
banishment. 

The  gentle,  kind-hearted  Josephine  viewed  all  these 
things  with  sadness,  for  her  power  over  the  heart  of  her 
husband  was  waning,  and  the  sun  of  her  glory  had  set. 
Her  prayers  and  tears  had  no  longer  a  prevailing  influence 
over  Bonaparte,  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  avert  the 
death  of  the  Duke  d'Enghien. 

"  I  have  tried  all  means,"  she  said,  with  tears,  to  Bour- 
rienne,  the  chief  secretary  of  the  emperor ;  "  I  wanted  at 
any  cost  to  turn  him  aside  from  his  dreadful  intention. 
He  had  not  apprised  me  of  it,  but  you  know  in  what  way 
I  learned  it.  At  my  request  he  confessed  to  me  his  pur- 
pose, but  he  was  steeled  against  my  prayers.  I  clung  to 
him,  I  fell  on  my  knees  before  him.  'Do  not  meddle  with 
what  is  none  of  your  business!'  he  cried,  angrily,  as  he 
pushed  me  away  from  him.  'These  are  not  women's 
affairs — leave  me  in  peace.'  And  so  I  had  to  let  the  worst 
come,  and  could  do  nothing  to  hinder  it.  But  afterward, 
when  all  was  over,  Bonaparte  was  deeply  affected,  and  for 
several  days  he  remained  sad  and  silent,  and  scolded  me  no 
more  when  he  found  me  in  tears."  * 

The  days  passed  by,  the  days  of  splendor,  and  then  fol- 

*  Bourrienne,  "Mymoires  du  Consulat  et  de  1'Etnpire. " 


AFTER    LONG    WANDERINGS.  559 

lowed  for  Josephine  the  days  of  misery  and  grief.  Ee- 
pelled  by  Napoleon,  she  mourned  four  years  over  her 
spurned  love  and  her  ruined  fortunes;  but  then,  when 
Napoleon's  star  went  down,  when  he  was  robbed  of  his 
imperial  crown  and  compelled  to  leave  France,  Josephine's 
heart  broke,  and  she  hid  herself  in  her  grave,  in  order  not 
to  witness  Napoleon's  humiliation. 

And  thus  the  empire  was  abolished,  and  the  Count  de 
Lille  called  back  by  foreign  potentates,  and  not  by  the 
French  nation,  in  order,  as  Louis  XVIII. ,  to  reerect  .the 
throne  of  the  Lilies. 

And  where,  all  this  time,  was  the  son  of  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette?  Where  was  Louis  XVII.  ? 

He  had  kept  his  word  which  he  gave  to  Josephine.  He 
had  gone  to  the  primeval  forests  and  to  the  savages,  and 
they  had  given  him  a  crown  of  feathers  and  made  him  their 
king.  *  For  years  he  lived  among  them,  honored  as  their 
king,  loved  as  their  hero.  Then  a  longing  for  his  country 
seized  him,  and  going  to  Brazil  in  the  service  of  his  people, 
he  made  use  of  the  opportunity  to  enter  into  a  contract 
with  Don  Juan,  and  not  return  to  his  copper-colored  tribe. 
The  precious  treasure  which  he  possessed,  his  papers,  he 
had  been  able  to  preserve  during  all  the  journeys  and  amid 
all  the  perils  of  his  life,  and  these  papers  procured  him  a 
hospitable  and  honorable  reception  with  Don  Juan.  From 
him  the  king  without  name  or  inheritance  learned  the 
changes  that  had  meanwhile  taken  place  in  France,  and,  at 
the  first  opportunity  which  offered,  he  returned  to  Europe, 
arriving  at  Paris  in  the  middle  of  the  year  1816. 

The  Prince  de  Conde,  now  the  Duke  de  Bourbon,  re- 
ceived the  wanderer  with  tenderness,  but  with  deep  regret, 
for  now  it  was  too  late,  and  his  hope  for  a  restoration  of 
the  returning  prince  could  rest  on  no  basis.  The  Count  de 
Provence  was  now  King  Louis  XVIII.,  and  never  would 
he  descend  from  his  throne  to  give  back  to  the  son  of 
Marie  Antoinette  that  crown  which  he  wore  with  so  much 
satisfaction  and  pride. 

Much  more  simple  and  easy  was  it  to  treat  the  pretender 
as  a  lunatic  or  as  an  adventurer,  and  to  set  his  claims  aside 
forever.  Useless  were  all  the  letters  which  the  Baron  de 

*  "M6moires  du  Due  de  Normandie,"  pp.  89-162. 


560  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

Kichemont,  the  name  that  Louis  still  bore,  addressed  to 
his  uncle  the  king,  to  his  sister  the  Duchess  de  Angou- 
leme,  imploring  them  for  an  interview.  No  answer  was 
received.  No  audience  was  granted  to  this  adventurer, 
whose  claims  could  not  be  recognized  without  dethroning 
Louis  XVIII.,  and  destroying  the  prospects  of  the  crown 
for  the  duchess's  son,  the  Duke  de  Berri.  Louis  XVII. 
had  died N  and  he  could  not  return  to  the  living.  He  saw 
it,  he  knew  it,  and  a  deep  sorrow  took  possession  of  him. 
But  he  rose  above  it — he  would  not  die;  he  would  live,  a 
terror  and  an  avenger  to  his  cruel  relatives. 

But  it  was  a  restless  life  that  the  son  of  the  queen  must 
lead,  in  order  to  protect  himself  from  the  daggers  of  his 
powerful  enemies.  The  Prince  de  Conde  conjured  him  to 
secure  himself  against  the  attacks  which  were  made  more 
than  once  upon  the  Baron  de  Eichemont,  and  Louis  gave 
heed  to  his  requests  and  tears.  He  travelled  abroad ;  but 
after  returning  in  two  years  from  a  journey  in  Asia  and 
Africa,  on  landing  on  the  Italian  coast,  he  was  arrested  in 
1818,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Austrian  ambassador  at 
Mantua,  and  confined  in  the  prison  of  Milan. 

Seven  years  the  unhappy  prince  spent  in  the  Austrian 
prison,  without  once  being  summoned  before  a  judge — 
seven  years  of  solitude,  of  darkness,  and  of  want.  But  the 
son  of  Marie  Antoinette  had  learned  in  his  youth  to  bear 
these  things,  and  his  prison-life  in  Milan  was  not  so  cruel 
as  that  in  the  Temple  under  Simon.  Here  there  were  at 
least  sympathizing  souls  who  pitied  him ;  even  the  turn- 
keys of  the  prison  were  courteous  and  kind  when  they 
entered  the  cell  of  the  "King  of  France;"  and  one  day, 
beyond  the  wall  of  his  apartment,  was  heard  a  voice  sing- 
ing, in  gentle,  melodious  tones,  a  romanza  which  Louis 
had  composed,  and  written  on  the  wall  when  he  occupied 
the  neighboring  cell. 

This  voice,  which  sounded  like  a  greeting  from  the 
world,  was  that  of  Silvio  Pellico.  The  celebrated  author  of 
"Le  Mie  Prigioni,"  relates  in  touching  words  this  saluta- 
tion of  his  neighbor : 

"  My  bed  was  carried,"  he  said,  "  into  the  new  cell  that 
was  prepared  for  me,  and  as  soon  as  the  inspectors  had  left 
me  alone,  my  first  care  was  to  examine  the  walls.  There 


AFTER   LONG   WANDERINGS.  561 

were  to  be  seen  there  some  words,  recollections  of  the  past, 
written  with  chalk,  with  pencil,  or  with  a  sharp  tool.  I 
found  there  also  two  pretty  French  lines,  which  I  am  sorry 
I  did  not  copy.  I  began  to  sing  them  to  my  melody  of 
'The  Poor  Magdalen,'  when  a  voice  near  me  responded 
with  another  air.  When  the  singer  ended,  I  called  out, 
'Bravo!'  He  replied  with  a  polite  salutation,  and  asked 
me  if  I  was  French. 

'  'No,  I  am  Italian,  and  am  called  Silvio  Pellico. ' 
"  'The  author  of  Francesco,  da  Rimini1?  ' 
' '  Yes,  the  same. ' 

"And  now  there  followed  a  courtly  compliment,  with 
the  usual  regrets  for  my  imprisonment.  He  asked  in  what 
part  of  Italy  I  was  born,  and  when  I  told  him  in  Saluzzo, 
in  Piedmont,  he  awarded  the  Piedmontese  some  words  of 
high  praise,  and  spoke  particularly  of  Bodoni  (a  celebrated 
printer,  director  of  the  national  printing  establishment  at 
Parma).  His  compliments  were  brief  and  discriminating, 
and  disclosed  a  finely  cultivated  mind. 

'And  now,  sir, '  said  I,  'allow  me  to  ask  you  who  you  are. ' 
'You  were  just  singing  a  song  that  I  wrote.' 
'These   pretty   verses   here   upon   the   wall,  are   they 
yours?' 

' '  Yes,  they  are. ' 
'You  are  therefore — ' 
'The  Duke  de  Normandie. ' 
'  The  watchman  was  just  then  walking  past  my  window 
and  so  I  was  still.  After  some  time  we  resumed  our  con- 
versation. When  I  asked  whether  he  was  Louis  XVII.,  he 
responded  in  the  affirmative,  and  began  to  declaim  hotly 
against  Louis  XVIII.  his  uncle,  the  usurper  of  his  rights. 
"  I  implored  him  to  give  me  his  history  in  brief  outlines. 
He  did  so,  and  related  to  me  all  the  details  connected 
with  the  life  of  Louis  XVII.,  which  I  knew  only  in  part. 
He  told  me  how  he  had  been  imprisoned  with  Simon  the 
cobbler,  been  compelled  to  sign  a  calumniating  charge 
against  his  mother,  etc.  He  then  related  to  me  the  story 
of  his  escape  and  his  flight  to  America,  of  his  return  to  re- 
claim the  throne  of  his  fathers,  and  his  arrest  in  Mantua. 

"  He  portrayed  his  history  with  extraordinary  life.  All 
the  incidents  of  the  French  Revolution  were  present  before 


562  MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

him ;  he  spoke  with  natural  eloquence,  and  wove  in  piquant 
anecdotes  very  apropos.  His  manner  of  expression  smacked 
once  in  a  while  of  the  soldier,  but  there  was  no  lack  of  the 
elegance  that  disclosed  his  intercourse  with  good  society. 

"'Will  you  allow  me,'  I  asked  him,  'to  treat  you  as  a 
friend  and  leave  off  all  titles?' 

'"I  want  exactly  that,' he  answered.  'Misfortune  has 
taught  me  the  good  lesson  to  despise  all  the  vanities  of 
earth.  Believe  me,  my  pride  does  not  lie  in  this,  that  I 
am  a  king,  but  that  I  am  a  man. ' 

"After  this  we  had  long  conversations  mornings  and 
evenings,  and  I  recognized  in  him  a  noble,  beautiful  soul, 
sensitive  to  all  that  is  good.  He  knew  how  to  win  hearts, 
and  even  the  turnkeys  were  kind  to  him.  One  of  them 
said  to  me  on  coming  from  the  cell  of  my  neighbor:  'I 
have  strong  hopes  that  he  will  make  me  chief  porter  when 
he  is  king;  I  have  had  the  boldness  to  ask  him  for  the 
position,  and  he  has  promised  it.' 

"  To  the  veneration  of  the  turnkeys  for  the  Icing  of  the, 
future  I  owe  it  that  one  day  when  I  was  led  to  trial,  and 
had  to  pass  by  his  cell,  they  opened  the  doors  that  I  might 
see  my  illustrious  friend.  He  was  of  medium  size,  from 
forty  to  forty-five  years  of  age,  somewhat  embonpoint,  and 
had  a  thoroughly  Bourbon  physiognomy."  * 

After  seven  years  of  imprisonment,  the  gates  opened  at 
last  for  the  Baron  de  Eichemont ;  and  he  who  had  been 
placed  there  without  the  sentence  of  a  judge,  was  released 
with  as  little  show  of  authority.  The  son  of  the  queen  was 
free  again ;  the  death  of  King  Louis  XVIII.  had  restored 
him  to  the  walks  of  men.  But  another  King  of  France 
assumed  his  place  at  once;  the  Count  d'Artois  ascended 
the  throne  under  the  title  of  Charles  X. 

The  poor  Baron  de  Eichemont  bore  his  sorrows  and  his 
humiliation  into  the  valleys  of  Switzerland.  But  when, 
in  the 'year  1830,  King  Charles  X.  abdicated  the  throne, 
the  sotf  of  Marie  Antoinette  again  came  forth  from  his 
solitude,  issued  a  proclamation  to  the  French  people,  and, 
in  the  presence  of  all  Europe,  demanded  his  inheritance. 

*  Silvio  Pellico,  "Le  Mie  Prigioni,"  p.  51  et  seq.  An  examination  of  Silvio 
Pellico's  work  will  convince  the  reader  that  Silvio  Pellico  was  by  no  means  a 
believer  in  the  genuineness  of  his  companion's  claims.  Miss  MUhlbach  seems 
to  have  been  scarcely  just  in  leaving  the  impression  conveyed  in  the  text.— TR. 


AFTER    LONG    WANDERINGS.  563 

Yet,  amid  the  clash  of  weapons  and  the  roar  of  revolu- 
tions, the  voice  of  the  unfortunate  prince  was  overborne. 
He  had  no  soldiers,  no  cannon,  to  enforce  silence  and  make 
himself  be  heard.  But  the  Duke  d'Orleans,  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, had  soldiers  and  cannon;  and  the  arms  of  his  de- 
pendants, and  the  magic  of  his  wealth,  placed  him  upon 
the  throne  in  July,  1830.* 

The  poor  Baron  de  Eichemout,  the  son  of  kings,  the 
last  of  the  Bourbons  in  France,  had  now  a  single  friend, 
who,  perhaps,  would  receive  him.  This  friend  was  the 
Duke  de  Bourbon-Conde,  now  an  old  man  of  eighty  years. 
One  day,  some  weeks  after  the  accession  of  Louis  Philippe, 
the  Duke  de  Bourbon  received  at  his  palace  of  St.  Leu  a 
gentleman  whom  nobody  knew,  who  announced  himself  as 
the  Baron  de  Eichemont. 

The  duke  went  out  into  the  anteroom,  greeted  his  guest 
with  the  greatest  deference,  and  led  him  into  his  cabinet. 
There  the  two  gentlemen  carried  on  a  long  and  earnest 
conversation,  and  the  secretary  of  the  duke,  who  was  at 
work  in  the  library  hard  by,  distinctly  heard  his  master  say, 
with  trembling  tones:  "Sire,  I  implore  you,  forgive  me. 
The  circumstances  were  stronger  than  my  will.  Sire,  go 
not  into  judgment  with  me — forgive  me." 

To  this  an  angry  voice  replied :  "  No,  I  will  not  forgive 
you,  for  you  have  dealt  perfidiously  with  the  son,  as  you 
did  once  with  the  mother !  You  have  not  redeemed  the 
oath  that  you  once  gave  me.  I  leave  you.  May  God  be 
gracious  to  you,  and  pardon  you.  Take  care  that  He  does 
not  punish  you  for  the  treachery  that  you  have  shown  to 
me.  You  swore  that  you  would  acknowledge  no  other 
king  but  me,  and  yet  you  have  taken  your  oath  to  the 
third  king.  Farewell!  May  the  Almighty  protect  you! 
We  shall  see  each  other,  perhaps,  in  a  better  world,  and 
there  you  will  have  to  give  your  account  to  a  Judge  whom 
nothing  can  mitigate.  Be  happy,  and  may  the  dead  sleep 
in  peace!" f 

The  secretary  then  heard  the  forcible  closing  of  a  door, 
and  all  became  still.  After  an  hour  he  entered  the  duke's 
cabinet,  because  the  silence  troubled  him.  The  old  duke 

*  It  was  the  9th  of  August.— TE. 

t  The  very  words  of  Richemont.  — See  "M6moires  du  Due  de  Normandie." 
p.  243. 


564  MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON. 

sat  in  his  arm-chair,  pale,  and  gazing  with  constant  looks 
at  the  door  through  which  the  stranger  had  departed.  He 
was  reticent  the  whole  day,  and  in  the  night  following  his 
valet  heard  him  softly  praying  and  weeping.  On  the  next 
morning,  August  27th,  1830,  on  entering  the  sleeping- 
room  of  his  master,  he  found  him  dead  and  already  rigid. 
The  duke  had  hanged  himself  at  the  windoAV  of  his  own 
room. 

The  last  dependant  of  the  unhappy  king,  who  still  bore 
the  name  of  the  pretender,  was  dead,  as  were  all  his  re- 
lations, including  his  sister,  the  Duchess  d'Angouleme. 
But  from  the  dead  there  came  a  greeting.  She  had  ordered 
a  large  sum  to  be  paid  yearly  to  the  Baron  de  Eichemont, 
and  the  report  was  that  she  had  wished  to  recognize  him 
on  her  death-bed  as  her  brother.  But  her  confessor  had 
counselled  her  that  such  a  recognition  would  introduce 
new  contentions  among  the  Bourbons,  and  give  the  pre- 
tender Henry  V.  equal  claims  with  Louis  XVII. 

Yet  the  Duke  de  Normandie  was  not  silent ;  he  spoke 
so  loudly  of  his  rights  that  Louis  Philippe  at  last  held  it 
advisable  to  arrest  him  and  bring  him  to  trial.  The  pre- 
liminary investigation  continued  fifteen  months;  then  he 
was  brought  before  the  court,  and  accused  of  conspiracy 
against  the  safety  of  the  state. 

The  Gazette  des  Tribunaux  of  the  3d,  4th,  and  5th  of 
November,  1834,  gave  the  details  of  this  trial.  Spectators 
poured  in  from  all  sides,  and  also,  in  an  unexpected  man- 
ner, witnesses  who  declared  themselves  ready  to  prove  the 
identity  of  the  Baron  de  Richemont  with  the  Duke  de 
Normandie,  son  of  Louis  XVI.  The  accused  appeared  en- 
tirely calm  and  dignified  before  the  bar,  and  when  the 
counsel  for  the  government  accused  him  of  appropriating 
a  name  that  did  not  belong  to  him,  he  asked  quietly, 
"  Gentlemen,  if  I  am  not  Louis  XVII. ,  will  you  tell  me 
who  I  am?" 

No  one  knew  how  to  reply  to  this  question ;  but  many 
eminent  legitimists  had  come  to  solemnly  declare  that  the 
accused  was  in  truth  their  king,  and  that  he  was  the  res- 
cued orphan  of  the  Temple. 

Even  the  president  of  the  court  seemed  to  be  convinced 
of  this,  and  his  closing  words  in  addressing  the  jury  were 


AFTER   LONG   WANDERINGS.  565 

these :  "  Gentlemen,  who  is  the  accused  who  stands  before 
you  to-day?  What  is  his  name,  his  lineage,  his  family? 
What  are  his  antecedents,  his  whole  history?  Is  he  an  in- 
strument of  the  enemies  of  France,  or  is  he,  much  more, 
an  unfortunate  who  has  miraculously  escaped  the  horrors 
of  a  bloody  revolution,  and,  laid  under  bans  by  his  birth, 
has  now  no  name  and  no  refuge  for  his  head?" 

The  jury,  however,  were  not  called  upon  to  answer  this 
question ;  they  had  simply  to  reply  to  the  question  whether 
the  accused  was  guilty  of  a  conspiracy  against  the  state. 
This  they  answered  with  a  "Guilty,"  and  condemned  the 
accused  to  an  imprisonment  of  twelve  years. 

The  Duke  de  Normandie,  or  King  Louis  Charles,  as  we 
may  choose  to  call  him,  was  taken  to  St.  Pelagie ;  but  dur- 
ing the  next  year,  through  the  assistance  of  powerful 
friends,  which  his  trial  had  gained  over  to  him,  he  was 
released  from  prison,  and  again  spent  some  quiet  years  in 
Switzerland. 

Then  came  the  year  1848,  the  year  of  revolutions,  whose 
storm-waves  drove  Louis  Philippe  to  England,  never  to  as- 
cend again  the  throne  of  France. 

Again  Louis  Charles  issued  from  his  solitude,  and  this 
time  not  alone.  A  swarm  of  rich  and  powerful  legitimists 
thronged  around  him,  a  journal — U Inflexible — was  secured 
to  the  interests  of  the  Duke  de  Normandie,  and  La  Ven- 
dee, with  a  thousand  loyal  voices,  summoned  King  Louis 
XVII.  to  herself.  There,  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
hastening  to  his  faithful  ones,  God  laid  his  hand  upon  him 
and  held  him  back ;  a  stroke  of  paralysis  crippled  his  limbs. 
After  recovering  from  this  attack,  the  strength  of  his  mind 
was  taken  away,  and  the  decided,  fiery,  indefatigable  pre- 
tender became  a  gentle,  pious  monk,  who  fasted  and 
prayed,  and  wandered  to  Rome  to  have  an  interview  with 
Pope  Pius  IX.,  and  received  absolution  from  him  for  all 
his  sins. 

The  pope  met  the  Duke  de  Normandie  at  Gaeta  on  the 
20th  of  February,  1849,  and  had  a  long  and  secret  conver- 
sation with  him;  and,  when  Louis  Charles  withdrew,  it 
was  as  a  quiet,  pious,  smiling  man,  who  never  denied  his 
high  extraction,  but  who  had  no  longer  a  wish  to  be  re- 
stored to  the  inheritance  of  his  fathers.  More  and  more 


566    x       MARIE    ANTOINETTE    AND    HER    SON. 

he  withdrew  from  the  world,  and  lived  only  in  the  circle 
of  a  few  noble-born  legitimists,  who  never  addressed  him 
excepting  as  "  sire."  He  accepted  the  title  as  one  that  was 
his  due,  and  never  refused  it  even  when  approached  by 
many  adherents  of  the  new  Napoleonic  dynasty.  At  that 
time  he  wrote  to  his  friends: 

"  You  ask  me  what  I  wish,  what  the  end  of  my  struggle 
is,  which  has  now  lasted  more  than  a  half  century?  I  will 
tell  you.  You  do  not  suppose,  I  trust,  that  I  am  still  de- 
termined to  ascend  the  throne  of  France :  to  do  this  would 
be  a  great  misfortune  for  me,  but  it  would  certainly  be  a 
greater  one  for  France,  and  it  would  rightly  be  said  of 
both  of  us  that  we  merit  our  misfortune ;  still  less  do  I 
hope  to  attain  to  wealth  and  high  station  by  being  recog- 
nized. You  know  that  I  need  very  little  for  my  support, 
and  that  this  little  is  amply  provided  for.  What  else 
should  I  strive  for?  To  avenge  myself?  My  friend,  I  am 
at  an  age  when  the  blood  flows  slower  through  the  veins, 
and  when  one  finds  an  inexpressible  charm  in  forgiving. 
What,  then,  do  I  wish?  What  could  I  have?  Why  do  I 
incessantly  strive?  This  is  the  reason,  my  friend :  I  should 
like,  before  my  death,  to  convince  all  who  have  disinter- 
estedly believed  in  me,  that  it  is  not  a  political  adventurer, 
but  the  royal  'orphan  of  the  Temple,'  who  owes  them  his 
friendship,  and  gives  them  his  gratitude." 

And  this  last  goal  of  his  life  was  within  his  reach.  The 
friends  and  legitimists  who  surrounded  him  believed  in 
him,  and  when  he  died  his  dependants  and  servants 
mourned  for  him  as  for  a  departed  king.  They  bore  him 
with  solemn  pomp  to  his  grave,  at  the  dead  of  night. 
Some  fifty  persons  followed  his  coffin,  and  a  priest  went  be- 
fore it.  He  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Villefranche, 
and  his  tombstone  bears  the  following  inscription : 

HERE  RESTS 
LOUIS    CHARLES,     OF    FRANCE, 

Born  at  Versailles,  March  27,  1785. 
Died  in  the  Chateau  of  Vaux-Renaud,  August  10,  1858. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-75m-7,'61  (Cl437s4)444 


PT 
2438 


1898 


A  001  189  158  7 


